FcVBAlY^T 
KHAYYi^ 

ArKICHARJ) 
UGALUENNE 


GIFT  OF 
Mrs,    I.   V:.    Aiken 


University  of  California  •  Berkeley 


RUBAIYAT  OF  OMAR  KHAYYAM 


By  Richard  Le  Gallienne 


REVISED 
Purple  Cloth.    Price,  ^i .  25  net 


Forthcoming 

Price,  ;^i.25  net 


RUBAIYAT  OF 

OMAR  KHAYYAM 

A  PARAPHRASE  FROM  SEVERAL 

LITERAL  TRANSLATIONS 

BT 

RICHARD  LE  GALLIENNE 


A   NEW    EDITION 

WITH     FIFTY    ADDED     QUATRAINS 


JOHN  LANE     THE  BODLEY  HEAD 


MCMII 


Copyright,  l8g'/,  igoi,  by  John  Lane 


NEW    EDITION 


€o  SFxdie  i^onregarft 


FAN^,  DENMARK 
AUGUST  24,  1897 


Co  tl^e  MtaUt 

I  am  told  that  an  apology  will  be  expected  of  me  for  this  humhlt 
attempt  to  add  to  the  poetry  of  nations.  For  my  party  I  believe 
that  poetry  should  be  its  own  apology ^  and  that  in  so  far  as  the 
following  paraphrase  is  poetry  ^  it  will  need  no  further  justification. 

However y  as  there  is  another  name  upon  the  title-page  besides  my 
own^  perhaps  I  owe  it  to  my  reverence  for  Omar  Khayyam  and 
Edward  FitzGerald  to  make  a  few  minor  explanations. 

"To  plead  that  the  idea  of  a  new  verse  rendering  of  Omar  Khay- 
yam was  not  my  own  unassisted  impertinence^  is  but  to  hint  at  the 
originality  of  the  English  publisher ^  without  easing  the  burden  of 
my  responsibility. 

As  for  that  very  minor  matter ^  my  Persian^  I  would  put  it  to 
my  friends  of  the  Omar  Khayyam  Club — whether  Persian  be  any 
^necessary  adjunct  or  true  ornament*  of  your  true  Omarian,     In'- 


II 


'  1 V  JA0  2y  AiS  ii;ii  AIM  u 


deed^  I  have  a  notion^ — whichy  of  course,  may  be  quite  erroneous — 
that  a  knowledge  of  Persian  disqualifies  one  for  membership  in  that 
genial  society.  It  would  seem  a  sort  of  unkindness  towards  Fitz- 
Gerald, — as  suggesting,  what  it  is  the  growing  fashion  to  forget, 
that  there  ever  was  any  such  person  as  Omar  at  all. 

However,  there  seems  to  be  no  real  doubt  that  there  was,  and 
that  he  has  transmitted  across  some  seven  hundred  years  a  series  of 
cabalistic al  ink-stains, — like  the  markings  on  flowers, — which 
Messrs,  Nicolas,  Whinfield,  and  McCarthy  agree  in  interpreting  as 
nearly  alike  as  is  no  matter.  Of  these  rose-leaves  freakt  with  jet, ^ 
these  rubaiyat, these  quatrains,  Omars  editors  count,  roughly,  some 
five  hundred,  many  of  which  are  of  doubtful  authenticity,  1'hese 
in  the  original  manuscripts  are  subject  to  an  arbitrary  alphabetical 
arrangement  which  is  no  arrangement.  T!hey  are  a  veritable pot^ 
pourri  of  wine-stained  petals — red,  yellow,  and  white — 


12 


.   .   .   maybe 
The  Saki  gathered  them  that  night  he  went 
Across  the  grass  and  that  sad  moon  arose. 

Probably  the  original  rose  of  Omar  was^  so  to  speaky  never  a 
rose  at  ally  but  only  petals  toward  the  making  of  a  rose;  and  per- 
haps FitzGerald  did  not  so  much  bring  Omars  rose  to  bloom  again  ^ 
as  make  it  bloom  for  the  first  time.  'The  petals  came  from  Persia^  but 
it  was  an  English  magician  who  charmed  them  into  a  living  rose. 

Welly  out  of  that  hoard  of  wine-stained  rose-leaves y  FitzGerald 
made  his  wonderful  Rose  of  the  Hundred  and  One  Petals — purple 
rose  incomparable  for  glory  and  perfume.  He  had  chosen  many  of 
the  richest  petals y  but  he  had  left  many  behindy — and  it  is  chiefly  of 
these  that  I  have  made  my  little  yellow  rose. 

I  have  persisted  in  this  image  because  it  is  really  an  accurate  des- 
cription of  what  I  conceive  to  have  been  FitzGerald' s  method  of 
dealing  with  his  original,  as  it  describes  my  own  method  of  manipw- 


lating  the  translations  on  which  the  following  poem  is  based.  In 
making  my  version  I  have,  of  course,  employed  the  form  of  qua- 
train naturalised  by  FitzGerald — naturalised,  it  must  be  remember- 
ed, and  not  invented;  the  unrhymed  third  line  being  a  feature  of 
the  original  rubdiy,  and  the  melody  of  the  whole  quatrain  being 
accounted  by  those  able  to  judge  a  beautiful  echo  of  the  old  Persian 
music,  ^here  appears  to  be  this  difference,  however,  that  the 
rhymes  in  the  Persian  are  trisyllabic,  a  metrical  effect  not  dignified 
in  English,  One  slight  variation  of  the  accepted  form  I  have  occa- 
sionally attempted,  following  what  appears  to  be  a  trick  of  emphasis 
not  infrequently  employed  in  the  original — the  repetition  of  one  em- 
-phatic  word  three  times  in  lieu  of  rhymes,  as  in  this  quatrain : — 

Would  you  seek  beauty,  seek  it  underground ;  ^ 

Would  you  find  strength — the  strong  are  underground ; 

And  would  you  next  year  seek  my  love  and  me. 
Who  knows  but  you  must  seek  us — underground  ? 


H 


To  Mr,  McCarthy  s  charming  prose  version  I  have  to  express  my 
chief  obligation.  Those  who  know  it  will  be  able  to  discover  for 
themselves  to  what  extent  I  have  literally  followed,  to  what  extent 
departed  from,  and  to  what  extent  expanded  his  prose,  I  confess 
to  having  made  the  freest  use  of  my  own  fancy,  and  a  number  of  the 
following  quatrains  have  little  or  no  verbal  parallel  in  the  original. 
Such,  however,  are  never,  in  my  judgment,  foreign  to  Omars  man- 
ner of  thought,  but  are  rather  explicit  expressions  of  philosophy  im- 
plicit in  his  verses, 

The  quatrains  in  celebration  of  the  clay  provide  a  case  in  point. 
Omar  never  tires  of  pondering  the  riddle  of  the  dust — 

What  buried  moons  of  beauty  Time  hath  hid 
Deep  in  eartFs  dusty  bosom  from  of  old; 

and  my  verses  but  more  particularly  formulate  a  mystic  materialism 
which,  obviously,  is  the  very  heart  of  his  philosophy,  A  propos 
the  clay,  the  reader  will  miss  that  little  book  of  the  pots  which 


15 


is  one  of  the  triumphs  of  Fitz  Gerald's  version.  Omar  gives  several 
hints  for  that  quaint  little  miracle-flay^  but  the  development  of  them 
is  so  much  FitzGerald' s  own  that  there  was  no  option  but  to  leave 
the  pots  alone,     ^ 

The  reader  may  remark  that  Omar  s  pessimism  in  the  following 
paraphrase  is  mitigated  more  frequently  by  moods  of  optimism  than 
in  FitzGerald,  In  his  attitude  to  the  Deity,  the  ^  he  s  a  good  fel- 
low' note  is  more  frequently  sounded,  a  curiously  complete  and 
abandoned  faith  alternating  paradoxically  with  the  most  savage 
criticism  and  despair.  In  this  my  paraphrase  accords  more  nearly 
with  the  Omar  of  the  more  literal  translators — for  Omar  is  always 
ready  to  curse  God  with  one  cup  and  love  Him  with  the  next. 

One  interest  of  Omars  existence  I  may  perhaps  claim  to  repre- 
sent with  a  more  proportionate  fulness, — his  interest  in  love  and 
*  women  with  languorous  narcissus  eyes'  Inhere  are  a  consider- 
ably greater  number  of  verses  devoted  to  that  pleasant  subject  in 


i6 


the  original  than  one  would  gather  from  FitzGerald ;  and  though^ 
after  Oriental  fashion^  woman  was  merely  an  interlude  in  Omar  s 
life^  a  pety  a  playthings  there  are  several  quatrains  which  breathe 
quite  a  modern  intensity  of  passion,  "That  Omar  sometimes  made 
use  of  wine  and  women  as  symbols  of  his  mystical  philosophy  is, 
doubtless,  true ;  but  that  he  more  often  made  a  simpler  use  of  them 
is,  happily,  still  more  certain — for  Omar  was,  emphatically,  a  poet 
who  found  his  ideal  in  the  real. 

As  it  proved  impracticable  to  give  even  such  random  continuity  to 
these  love-verses,  as  I  have  attempted  in  the  body  of  the  poem,  I 
have  made  use  of  them  as  an  intermezzo,  a  device  of  arrangement 
which  is  appropriate  as  suggesting  the  intercalary  importance  of 
women  in  the  life  of  the  great  thinker-drinker — as  though,  in  some 
pause  of  his  grave  or  humourous  argument,  he  should  turn  to  caress 
the  little  moon  at  his  side, 

RICHARD  LE  GALLIENNE 

waggoner's  wells,   hind  head,  surrey. 


17 


0ott  to  ti^c  0m  emion 

TAe  writer  has  taken  the  opportunity  of  this  new  edition 
to  make  one  or  two  revisions^  and  to  addffty  quatrains, 

MINNEAPOLIS,   U.    S.    A. 
24th  NOVEMBER,    I9OO 


18 


RUBAIYAT  OF  OMAR  KHAYYAM 


f  '  /  '' 


RUBAIYAT 

OF 

OMAR  KHAYYAM 

Wake !  for  the  sun,  the  shepherd  of  the  sky. 
Has  penned  the  stars  within  their  fold  on  high, 
/  And,  shaking  darkness  from  his  mighty  hmbs. 
Scatters  the  dayHght  from  his  burning  eye. 

In  Heaven's  blue  bowl  the  wine  of  morning  brims, 
A  little  cloud,  a  rose-leaf,  in  it  swims, 
2,  The  thirsty  earth  drinks  morning  from  a  bowl 
Whose  sides  are  space  and  crusted  stars  its  rims. 

Yea!  'tis  the  morn!  and  like  a  morning  star 
The  Sultan's  palace  glitters  from  afar, 
^.  No  false  mirage  of  morning,  phantom-fair. 
But  blue-eyed  day  throned  on  his  diamond  car. 


21 


Awake!  my  soul,  and  haste  betimes  to  drink. 
This  sun  that  rises  all  too  soon  shall  sink, — 
^'  Come,  come,  O  vintner,  ope  thy  drowsy  door! 
We  die  of  thirst  upon  the  fountain's  brink.* 

Poor  homeless  men  that  have  no  other  home. 
Unto  the  wine-shop  early  are  we  come, 
^''^  Since  darkling  dawn  have  we  been  waiting  here. 
Waiting  and  waiting  for  the  day  to  come. 

For  some  have  love,  some  gold,  and  some  have  fame. 
But  we  have  nothing,  least  of  all  a  name, 
^-  Nothing  but  wine,  yet  ah!  how  much  to  say. 
Nothing  but  wine — yet  happy  all  the  same. 

Youth,  like  a  magic  bird,  has  flown  away. 
He  sang  a  little  morning-hour  in  May, 
7.  Sang  to  the  Rose,  his  love,  that  too  is  gone— 
Whither  is  more  than  you  or  I  can  say. 


*Th's  line  luill  he  recognised  as  the  famous  refrain  of  a  ballad  by  Charles  d"  Orleans ,  but 
Omar  has  in  another  connection  this  almost  identical  passage  : — ^  I  am  racked  ivith  thirsty  and 
yet  afresh  cool  stream  floivs  before  me.* 

22 


O  have  you  deemed,  who  looked  on  us  with  scorn. 
Poor  drunkards,  dreaming-drunk  from  morn  to  morn, 
5'  Our  raiment  stained,  our  reputation  gone. 
That  all  our  heart  is  grape  or  barley-corn  ? 

Within  the  haunted  wine-cup  more  than  wine 
It  is  that  makes  a  mortal  man  divine, 
?•  We  seek  a  drink  more  deadly  and  more  strange 
Than  ever  grew  on  any  earthly  vine. 

The  wine-cup  is  the  little  silver  well 
Where  Truth,  if  Truth  there  be,  doth  ever  dwell; 
/0'  Death  too  is  there, — and  Death  who  would  not  seek?- 
And  Love  that  in  itself  is  Heaven  and  Hell. 

The  wine-cup  is  a  wistful  magic  glass. 
Wherein  all  day  old  faces  smile  and  pass, 
"-  Dead  lips  press  ours  upon  its  scented  brim. 
Old  voices  whisper  many  a  sweet  *alas!' 


23 


And  sometimes  in  the  nodding  afternoon, 
When  all  is  listening-still  and  half-a-swoon, 
/^.  Sudden  one  lifts  a  shining  startled  face, — 
Hark!   'tis  the  magic  bird,  the  magic  tune! 

Drunkards!  so  be  it — yet,  if  all  were  wise. 
All  would  be  drunk  like  us,  with  dreaming  eyes : 
IS.  Poor  sober  world,  so  doleful  all  the  day. 
Leave  mosque  and  mart,  and  join  our  Paradise. 

There  are  no  sorrows  wine  cannot  allay. 
There  are  no  sins  wine  cannot  wash  away, 
/«?.  There  are  no  riddles  wine  knows  not  to  read. 
There  are  no  debts  wine  is  too  poor  to  pay. 

Would  you  forget  a  woman,  drink  red  wine ; 
Would  you  remember  her,  then  drink  red  wine  I 
i^'  Is  your  heart  breaking  just  to  see  her  face  ? 
Gaze  deep  within  this  mirror  of  red  wine. 


24 


If  thou  wilt  keep  my  head  well  filled  with  wine, 
I  care  not  if  the  whole  round  world  be  thine ; 
^^'  O  fading  kingdoms  and  forgotten  kings, 
I  know  a  better  kingdom — drink  red  wine. 

Within  the  tavern  each  man  is  a  king, 
Wine  is  the  slave  that  brings  him — anything ; 
/7'  O  friend,  be  wise  in  time  and  join  our  band. 
Drink  and  forget,  and  laugh  and  dance  and  sing. 


25 


Who  brought  thee  last  night  lovely  to  my  side  ? 
Who  drew  thy  warm  veil  cunningly  aside  ? 
/^.  Who  snatched  thee  back  again  so  soon,  so  soon  f 
Who  set  this  hell-fire  burning  in  my  side? 

hike  a  dead  man  within  thine  arms  I  lay^ 
Entranced  beyond  the  bounds  of  night  and  day — 
If.  O  cruel  breath  of  the  dissevering  dawn 
That  bids  me  fiy  who  would  for  ever  stay! 


26 


Yea,  it  is  truly  Khayyam  that  you  see. 
These  are  his  dancing-girls,  and  drunk  is  he, 
:2<?  Throned  in  the  tavern,  fear  below  his  feet. 
As  wisely  happy  as  a  man  may  be. 

To  win  this  wisdom  he  hath  given  up 
All  worldly  goods,  his  very  drinking-cup 
z*.  Hath  to  the  tavern-master  humbly  sold, — 
Do  thou  the  same,  and  join  the  wise  who  sup. 

Only  a  breath  divides  belief  from  doubt, 
'Tis  muttered  breath  that  makes  a  man  devout, 
^^«Yea,  death  from  life  only  a  breath  divides — 
O  haste  to  drink  before  that  breath  is  out. 

You  say,  "  There  are  so  many  crowns  to  win. 
Yet  you  lie  sunken  in  your  sleepy  sin  "  ; 
IZ,  Bring  me  a  crown  of  gold  and  big  enough. 
And  I  will  wear  it — all  these  are  of  tin. 


27 


Whether  you  would  abide  or  go  away, 
Wine  will  befriend  you,  friend  ;  for,  if  you  stay, 
t'^- You'll  forget  going  ;  and,  if  you  must  go, 
He'll  drown  you  in  the  very  sweetest  way. 

Some  that  would  leave  this  world  take  dreadful  means 
One  wrenching  poisons,  one  steel,  another  leans 
25'. His  brow  on  sudden  fire;  but  wine  is  best — 
Poets  have  died  so,  and  many  kings  and  queens. 

Wine  is  the  tender  friend  of  suicides. 
You  drown  so  softly  in  its  gentle  tides ; 
Z^.You  know  not  you  are  dying,  yet  you  die; 
And  love  with  rose-leaves  all  the  ruin  hides. 

Once  in  the  tavern  you  have  reached  the  end. 
No  more  to  fear  from  enemy — or  friend; 
ZJ^,  No  more  to  hope,  no  more  to  do  or  say. 
Nothing  to  pray  for — nothing  to  pretend. 


28 


Art  thou  aweary,  friend,  in  all  thy  bones  ? 
Drink  wine,  red  wine,  and  so  forget  thy  groans ; 
2?.  Wine  is  unlawful,  sayst  thou?  then  say  I — 
Who  loves  not  wine  had  best,  I  think,  eat  stones. 

Think  not  that  I  have  never  tried  your  way 
To  heaven,  you  who  pray  and  fast  and  pray  : 
29.  Once  I  denied  myself  both  love  and  wine — 
Yea,  wine  and  love — for  a  whole  summer  day. 

I  cannot  help  it — were  it  in  my  power, 

I  would  forsake  my  sins  this  very  hour, 

36.  Forsake  the  Rose,  and  bid  the  Vine  good-bye. 

Kiss  my  last  kiss — if  it  were  in  my  power. 

0  good  old  friends,  what  is  it  I  have  said  ? 
It  was  the  wine  that  got  into  my  head — 
SI.  Forgive  me,  O  forgive,  I  meant  it  not, 

1  shall  forsake  you  only  when  Fm  dead. 


29 


And  even  then — who  knows? — we'll  meet  again. 
Nor  the  celestial  wine-cup  cease  to  drain, 
.3^2,  And  in  some  laughter-loving  heaven  on  high 
Our  little  women  to  our  bosoms  strain. 


30 


Life  is  so  shorty  yet  sleeps  thy  lovely  head; 
Why  make  so  soon  a  death-bed  of  thy  bed? 
^^'0  love,  awake!  thy  beauty  wastes  away — 
Thou  shalt  sleep  on  and  on  when  thou  art  dead. 


31 


This  is  no  way  my  learned  life  to  use! 
Tell  me  a  better,  then,  that  I  may  choose. 
^^'  Shall  I  for  some  remote  imagined  gain 
My  precious  little  hour  of  living  lose? 

Shall  I,  with  such  a  little  hoard  to  spend. 
Waste  it  to  such  unprofitable  end? 
3^.  Do  as  you  please  who  think  another  way — 
For  me  the  wine-cup  and  a  pretty  friend. 

A  book,  a  woman,  and  a  flask  of  wine : 
The  three  make  heaven  for  me ;  it  may  be  thine 
3^.Is  some  sour  place  of  singing  cold  and  bare — 
But  then,  I  never  said  thy  heaven  was  mine. 

Lost  to  a  world  in  which  I  crave  no  part, 
I  sit  alone  and  listen  to  my  heart, 
37.  Pleased  with  my  little  corner  of  the  earth. 
Glad  that  I  came — not  sorry  to  depart. 


32 


And  to  my  solitude  sometimes  I  bring 
A  gracious  shape  to  sit  with  me  and  sing, 
3  y  Losing,  to  find,  myself  in  her  deep  eyes — 
Ah !   then  I  ask  no  other  earthly  thing. 

Good  friends,  beware !   the  only  life  we  know 
Flies  from  us  like  an  arrow  from  the  bow, 
x^y.The  caravan  of  life  is  moving  by. 
Quick !  to  your  places  in  the  passing  show. 

While  still  thy  body's  breath  is  warm  and  sweet, 
Follow  thy  pleasures  with  determined  feet, 
-f^'Ere  death,  the  coldest  lover  in  the  world. 
Catches  thee  up  with  footsteps  still  more  fleet. 

Set  not  thy  heart  on  any  good  or  gain. 
Life  means  but  pleasure,  or  it  means  but  pain; 
<f/.  When  Time  lets  slip  a  little  perfect  hour, 
O  take  it — for  it  will  not  come  again. 


33 


Each  day  a  leaf  falls  withered  from  the  tree 
Whose  leaves  make  up  the  life  of  thee  and  me, 
'^^.The  leaves  are  counted  and  the  last  is  there — 
Ready  to  fall  before  thy  destiny. 

I  pray  you,  gentle  Saki,  of  your  grace. 
Carry  the  wine-jar  to  some  pleasant  place, 
4^3.  Where,  in  a  green  and  rose-hung  sanctuary, 
ril  gaze  all  day  on  my  beloved's  face. 

For  spring  is  here,  with  all  his  ancient  fires, 

Quick  with  old  dreams,  and  thrilled  with  new  desires  ; 

4^- Vowed  to  repent,  yet  sure  to  sin  again — 

O  leave  repentance  to  your  withered  sires! 

O  listen,  love,  how  all  the  builders  sing ! 
O  sap !     O  song !     O  green  world  blossoming ! 
^«  White  as  the  hand  of  Moses  blooms  the  thorn. 
Sweet  as  the  breath  of  Jesus  comes  the  spring. 


34 


Spring,  with  the  cuckoo-sob  deep  in  his  throat. 
O'er  all  the  land  his  thrilling  whispers  float, 
4^.  Old  earth  believes  his  ancient  lies  once  more. 
And  runs  to  meet  him  in  a  golden  coat. 

And  many  a  lovely  girl  that  long  hath  lain 
Beneath  the  grass,  out  in  the  sun  and  rain, 
4-7:  Lifts  up  a  daisied  head  to  hear  him  sing. 
Hearkens  a  little,  smiles,  and  sleeps  again. 

Yea,  love,  this  very  ground  you  lightly  tread, 
Who  knows!  is  pillow  to  some  maiden's  head; 
4^.  Ah !  tread  upon  it  lightly,  lest  you  wake 
The  sacred  slumber  of  the  happy  dead. 

Strange  is  the  riddle  of  this  life  of  ours ! 
Who  knows  the  meaning  of  the  heavenly  powers.? 
*f^.  Great  Caesar's  wounds  bleed  yearly  in  the  rose. 
And  flower-like  ladies  turn  again  to  flowers. 


35 


The  grave  of  beauty  is  its  cradle  too. 

And  new  is  old,  and  old  is  ever  new, 

.^'2'' Little  grows  great,  and  great  grows  small  again. 

And  I  to-day — perchance  to-morrow  You! 

What  long-dead  face  makes  here  the  grass  so  green  ? 
On  what  earth-buried  bosom  do  we  lean? 
^^  Ah !  love,  when  we  in  turn  are  grass  and  flowers, 
By  what  kind  eyes  to  come  shall  we  be  seen? 

Like  us,  will  they  have  pity  on  the  dead. 
Blessing  the  green  that  hides  love's  sleeping  head, 
^5.  And,  meanwhile,  like  such  ancient  folk  as  we. 
Wine-drench  the  meadow  to  a  tulip-bed? 

O  love,  how  green  the  world,  how  blue  the  sky! 
And  we  are  living — living — you  and  I! 
fi^.Ah,  when  the  sun  shines  and  our  love  is  near, 
'Tis  good  to  live,  and  very  hard  to  die. 


36 


Beautiful  wheel  of  blue  above  my  head. 
Will  you  be  turning  still  when  I  am  dead? 
'S''^*  Were  you  still  turning  long  before  I  came?- 
O  bitter  thought  to  take  with  me  to  bed. 


37 


Though  my  estate  be  poor,  my  rahnent  torn, 
I  am  not  really  sorry  I  was  borriy 
%£'  For  God  has  given  me  my  heart's  desire — 
Wine,  and  the  Well-Beloved,  and  the  morn. 

Like  to  the  intertwisted  melody 
Of  harp  and  lute  shall  our  true  wedding  be, 
5^  And  such  a  marriage  of  fair  music  make 
That  none  shall  separate  the  Thee  from  Me. 


38 


Once  in  a  garden  this  advice  I  heard, 
It  was  the  Nightingale,  the  Rose's  bird, — 
6*7.  He  left  the  Rose,  to  hurry  in  my  ear : 
"  It  is  our  only  chance,  you  take  my  word/* 

Sweet  cup  of  life  no  power  shall  fill  again. 
Thy  juice  goes  singing  through  each  gladdened  vein — 
5 jr.  Drink,  drink,  my  love,  two  mouths  upon  the  brim. 
Ah !  drink,  drink,  drink,  each  little  drop  and  drain. 

For,  have  you  thought  how  short  a  time  is  ours  ? 
Only  a  little  longer  than  the  flowers, 
SJ.  Here  in  the  meadow  just  a  summer's  day. 
Only  to-day;  to-morrow — other  flowers. 

The  stream  of  life  runs  ah !  so  swiftly  by, 
A  gleaming  race  'twixt  bank  and  bank — we  fly, 
^0.  Faces  alight  and  little  trailing  songs. 
Then  plunge  into  the  gulf,  and  so  good-bye. 


39 


The  bird  of  life  is  singing  on  the  bough 

His  two  eternal  notes  of  "I  and  Thou" — 

^''  O !  hearken  well,  for  soon  the  song  sings  through. 

And,  would  we  hear  it,  we  must  hear  it  now. 

The  bird  of  life  is  singing  in  the  sun, 
Short  is  his  song,  nor  only  just  begun, — 
^X'K  call,    a  trill,  a  rapture,  then — so  soon! — 
A  silence,  and  the  song  is  done — is  done. 

Yea!  what  is  man  that  deems  himself  divine? 
Man  is  a  flagon,  and  his  soul  the  wine; 
^3.  Man  is  a  reed,  his  soul  the  sound  therein; 
Man  is  a  lantern,  and  his  soul  the  shine. 

Would  you  be  happy!  hearken,  then,  the  way: 
Heed  not  To-morrow,  heed  not  Yesterday; 
<^-f.The  magic  words  of  life  are  Here  and  Now — 
O  fools,  that  after  some  to-morrow  stray! 


40 


Were  I  a  Sultan,  say  what  greater  bliss 
Were  mine  to  summon  to  my  side  than  this, — 
'^^"Dear  gleaming  face,  far  brighter  than  the  moon! 
O  Love !  and  this  immortalizing  kiss. 

To  all  of  us  the  thought  of  heaven  is  dear — 
Why  not  be  sure  of  it  and  make  it  here  ? 
^i'No  doubt  there  is  a  heaven  yonder  too. 
But  'tis  so  far  away — and  you  are  near. 

Men  talk  of  heaven, — there  is  no  heaven  but  here ; 
Men  talk  of  hell, — there  is  no  hell  but  here ; 
^7.  Men  of  hereafters  talk,  and  future  lives, — 
O  love,  there  is  no  other  life — but  here. 


41 


Gay  little  moon,  that  hath  not  understood! 

She  claps  her  hands ,  and  calls  the  red  wine  good ; 

^^'O  careless  and  beloved,  if  she  knew 

This  wine  she  fancies  is  my  true  heart's  blood. 

Girl,  have  you  any  thought  what  your  eyes  mean 
You  must  have  stolen  them  from  some  dead  queen, 
(s^,0  little  empty  laughing  soul  that  sings 
And  dances,  tell  me — What  do  your  eyes  mean  ? 

And  all  this  body  of  ivory  and  myrrh, 
O  guard  it  with  some  little  love  and  care  ; 
7o,Know  your  own  wonder,  worship  it  with  me. 
See  how  I  fall  before  it  deep  in  prayer. 


42 


Nor  idle  I  who  speak  it,  nor  profane, 
This  playful  wisdom  growing  out  of  pain; 
Ji'  How  many  midnights  whitened  into  morn 
Before  the  seeker  knew  he  sought  in  vain. 

You  want  to  know  the  Secret — so  did  I, 
Low  in  the  dust  I  sought  it,  and  on  high 
7X.  Sought  it  in  awful  flight  from  star  to  star. 
The  Sultan's  watchman  of  the  starry  sky. 

Up,  up,  where  Parwin's  hoofs  stamp  heaven's  floor. 

My  soul  went  knocking  at  each  starry  door, 

7-5'Till  on  the  stilly  top  of  heaven's  stair. 

Clear-eyed  I  looked — and  laughed — and  climbed  no  more. 

Of  all  my  seeking  this  is  all  my  gain : 

No  agony  of  any  mortal  brain 

74-.  Shall  wrest  the  secret  of  the  life  of  man ; 

The  Search  has  taught  me  that  the  Search  is  vain. 


43 


Yet  sometimes  on  a  sudden  all  seems  clear — 
Hush !   hush !   my  soul,  the  Secret  draweth  near ; 
7^-  Make  silence  ready  for  the  speech  divine — 
If  Heaven  should  speak,  and  there  be  none  to  hear ! 

Yea !   sometimes  on  the  instant  all  seems  plain, 

The  simple  sun  could  tell  us,  or  the  rain; 

74.  The  world,  caught  dreaming  with  a  look  of  heaven, 

Seems  on  a  sudden  tip-toe  to  explain. 

Like  to  a  maid  who  exquisitely  turns 
A  promising  face  to  him  who,  waiting,  burns 
77*  In  hell  to  hear  her  answer — so  the  world 
Tricks  all,  and  hints  what  no  man  ever  learns. 

Look  not  above,  there  is  no  answer  there; 
Pray  not,  for  no  one  listens  to  your  prayer; 
78. Near  is  as  near  to  God  as  any  Far, 
And  Here  is  just  the  same  deceit  as  There. 


44 


But  here  are  wine  and  beautiful  young  girls. 
Be  wise  and  hide  your  sorrows  in  their  curls, 
7y.  Dive  as  you  will  in  life's  mysterious  sea, 
You  shall  not  bring  us  any  better  pearls. 

Allah,  perchance,  the  secret  word  might  spell ; 
If  Allah  be.  He  keeps  His  secret  well ; 
^c.What  He  hath  hidden,  who  shall  hope  to  find? 
Shall  God  His  secret  to  a  maggot  tell? 

So  since  with  all  my  passion  and  my  skill. 

The  world's  mysterious  meaning  mocks  me  still. 

Si.  Shall  I  not  piously  believe  that  I 

Am  kept  in  darkness  by  the  heavenly  will? 


45 


How  sad  to  be  a  woman — not  to  know 
Aught  of  the  glory  of  this  breast  of  snow^ 
%%, All  unconcerned  to  comb  this  mighty  hair; 
To  be  a  woman  and  yet  never  know! 

Were  I  a  woman^  I  would  all  day  long 
Sing  my  own  beauty  in  some  holy  songy 
S3*  Bend  low  before  it,  hushed  and  half  afraid^ 
And  say  "  /  am  a  woman  "  all  day  long. 


46 


The  Koran !  well,  come  put  me  to  the  test — 
Lovely  old  book  in  hideous  error  drest — 
^4.  Believe  me,  I  can  quote  the  Koran  too. 
The  unbeliever  know^s  his  Koran  best. 

And  do  you  think  that  unto  such  as  you, 
A  maggot-minded,  starved,  fanatic  crew, 
$5.God  gave  the  Secret,  and  denied  it  me? — 
Well,  well,  what  matters  it !  believe  that  too. 

Old  Khayyam,  say  you,  is  a  debauchee; 
If  only  you  were  half  so  good  as  he ! 
%U.  He  sins  no  sins  but  gentle  drunkenness. 
Great-hearted    mirth,  and  kind  adultery. 

But  yours  the  cold  heart,  and  the  murderous  tongue. 
The  wintry  soul  that  hates  to  hear  a  song, 
^7The  close-shut  fist,  the  mean  and  measuring  eye. 
And  all  the  little  poisoned  ways  of  wrong. 


47 


So  I  be  written  in  the  Book  of  Love, 

I  have  no  care  about  that  book  above; 

?9.  Erase  my  name,  or  w^rite  it,  as  you  please — 

So  I  be  w^ritten  in  the  Book  of  Love. 

What  care  I,  love,  for  what  the  Sufis  say? 
The  Sufis  are  but  drunk  another  way; 
S^.  So  you  be  drunk,  it  matters  not  the  means. 
So  you  be  drunk — and  glorify  your  clay. 

Drunken  myself,  and  with  a  merry  mind. 
An  old  man  passed  me,  all  in  vine-leaves  twined ; 
^0. 1  said,  "Old  man,  hast  thou  forgotten  God?" 
"Go,  drink  yourself,"  he  said,  "for  God  is  kind." 

**Did  God  set  grapes  a-growing,  do  you  think. 
And  at  the  same  time  make  it  sin  to  drink? 
7/. Give  thanks  to  Him  who  foreordained  it  thus — 
Surely  He  loves  to  hear  the  glasses  clink ! " 


48 


From  God's  own  hand  this  earthly  vessel  came. 
He  shaped  it  thus,  be  it  for  fame  or  shame; 
^Z.  If  it  be  fair — to  God  be  all  the  praise, 
If  it  be  foul — to  God  alone  the  blame. 

To  me  there  is  much  comfort  in  the  thought 
That  all  our  agonies  can  alter  nought, 
^^.Our  lives  are  written  to  their  latest  word. 
We  but  repeat  a  lesson  He  hath  taught. 

Our  wildest  wrong  is  part  of  His  great  Right, 
Our  weakness  is  the  shadow  of  His  might, 
7^«  Our  sins  are  His,  forgiven  long  ago. 
To  make  His  mercy  more  exceeding  bright. 

When  first  the  stars  were  made  and  planets  seven, 
Already  was  it  told  of  me  in  Heaven 
^^''.That  God  had  chosen  me  to  sing  His  Vine, 
And  in  my  dust  had  thrown  the  vinous  leaven. 


49 


If  'tis  a  sin  to  drink  the  yellow  wine. 
The  sin  is  surely  His,  not  thine  or  mine; 
7f*-Fated  to  drink,  how  dare  I  disobey — 
And  bring  to  nought  the  prophecy  divine ! 

So  in  the  tavern  pass  I  all  my  days. 

And  sing  and  drink,  and  give  to  God  the  praise; 

77.  Ready,  at  any  summons  of  His  hand. 

To  do  His  bidding  in  still  harder  ways. 


50 


O  my  beloved,  may  your  glad  to-morrows 
Stretch  out  before  you,  endless  as  my  sorrows; 
'^^^  Haste  not  away,  I  have  but  wine  and  you. 
Tea!  life  is  nought  unless  from  you  it  borrows. 


51 


Sad  pilgrim  of  the  heart,  the  way  is  long ; 
Suppose  we  lighten  it  for  you  with  a  song, 
^^.  Here  in  the  tavern  rest  your  wandering  feet. 
Strong  is  your  love,  but  wine  is  just  as  strong! ' 

We  know  the  love  that  drives  you  to  and  fro. 
Like  hungry  dogs  that  through  the  city  go, 
/•••The  hollow  hunger  of  the  breaking  heart. 
And  the  one  cure  for  it,  alike  we  know. 

Saki,  bring  roses  for  this  sad  one's  hair. 
And  set  a  bowl  of  rubies  for  him  there  ; 
1 01.  And    you,  O    moon,  dance,  dance,  and  dance  and 

dance. 
That  the  poor  fellow  may  not  think  of  her. 

Life  is  too  short,  dear  brother,  to  be  sad; 
If  you  must  needs  be  anything — be  glad  ; 
/oaLeave  bitter  books,  and  read  the  Book  of  Joy — 
I  know  that  some  declare  the  book  is  bad. 


52 


Eternal  torment  some  sour  wits  foretell 
For  those  who  follow  wine  and  love  too  well, — 
/«»3.Fear  not,  for  God  were  left  alone  in  Heaven 
If  all  the  lovely  lovers  burnt  in  hell. 

He  who  believes  in  hell  and  knows  Thy  grace 
Shall  surely  find  in  hell  his  resting-place, 
ro'hKeep  for  the  mosque  these  fables  of  Thy  wrath- 
No  man  believes  them  who  hath  seen  Thy  face. 

I  cannot  think  that  the  Beloved  Friend, 
Who  made  the  world  so  fair,  should  choose  to  rend 
loiT-This  lovely  curtain  of  the  night  and  day. 
Nor  break — unless  some  day  He  means  to  mend. 

Yea!   I  believe  that  He  who  made  the  skies 
Is  wonderfully  good,  and  very  wise, — 
lot.Beloved  Master!   Hast  thou  never  seen 
The  tears  of  pity  gather  in  His  eyes  ? 


53 


I  am  not  lawless,  though  I  break  Thy  law. 
Drunken  am  I  with  very  love  and  awe; 
f^J,  'Twas  ever  thus  with  veritable  seers — 
Too  drunk  with  joy  to  tell  us  what  they  saw. 

In  my  left  hand  I  hold  the  Koran  tight, 
And  grasp  the  wine-cup  firmly  in  my  right — 
/A?.Thus  do  I  stand  beneath  the  eye  of  heaven. 
Not  quite  a  saint,  nor  yet  a  sinner  quite. 

I  break  one  law,  another  law  to  keep; 
The  laws  of  death  and  hate  I  scorn  to  keep, 
/»y.The  law  of  Love  that  is  the  law  of  Life — 
That  is  the  only  law  I  dare  to  keep. 

Sanction,  O  God,  some  little  pleasant  thing. 
Nor  set  our  every  joy  with  snare  and  sting; 
n^l  would  not  break  Thy  law, — yet  must  I  still 
Unto  my  innocent  transgressions  cling. 


54 


Lo !   Nature's  law  and  God's — two  angry  fires — 
Each  the  allegiance  of  my  soul  requires ; 
/n.  Strange  God  that  made,  unmake  me  what  I  am- 
Or  reconcile  the  law  to  my  desires ! 

Who  set  this  wine-cup  in  my  willing  way  ? 
Who  made  this  woman  of  enchanted  clay  ? 
/'X- When  gods  decree  such  difficult  commands. 
They  should  give  too  the  power  to  obey. 

'Tis  but  a  fiat  of  impossible  good, 
A  dream  of  high  fantastic  rectitude ; 
/ij/Tis  not  for  man,  that  lordly  animal. 
While  of  its  ancient  colour  runs  his  blood. 

If  I  were  God,  and  this  poor  world  were  mine, 
O  thou  shouldst  see  on  what  a  fair  design 
nf'I  would  rebuild  it  like  a  dream  for  thee. 
Nor  shouldst  thou  ever  blush  to  call  it  thine. 


55 


If  I  were  God,  the  very  stars  and  flowers 
Should  be  more  fair,  and  all  the  sterns  and  sours 
1 1^>  Change  to  a  music  sweet  as  rivers  flowing — 
If  I  were  God,  and  this  poor  world  were  ours. 

If  I  were  God,  I  would  not  wait  the  years 
To  solve  the  mystery  of  human  tears; 
//*.  And,  unambiguous,  I  would  speak  my  will. 
Nor  hint  it  darkly  to  the  dreaming  seers. 

If  /  were  God !   this  I ! — a  poor  old  man 
Whose  heaven  is  wine,  whose  hell  is  Ramadan; 
7/7.  Poor  dizzy  head  within  a  reeling  world. 
Poor  trembling  hand — the  steadfast  heavens  to  span ! 


56 


Be  not  too  proud^  my  little  haughty  moony 
Nor  to  my  love  deny  so  small  a  boon; 
us.  My  heart  is  heavy,  love  can  make  it  light—- 
Fair  as  a  flower — and  faded  just  as  soon! 

What  though  thy  body  like  a  moon  be  fair. 
Tulips  thy  cheeks,  and  like  a  bower  thy  hair, — 
u*l,Strange  that  the  builder  of  the  heavens  should  deigi 
To  paint  thy  little  phantom  on  the  air  I 

Vain  little  breath  of  sweet  rose-coloured  dust. 
For  such  as  thou  Death  hath  a  fearful  lust, — 
iX»»See,  where  he  tears  the  rose's  veil  aside. 
Kisses  and  shatters  her  with  one  wild  gust. 

r 


S7 


*Tis  a  strange  world  we  came  to,  You  and  I, 
Whence  no  man  knows,  and  surely  none  knows  why, 
.  it  Why  we  remain — a  harder  question  still. 
And  still  another — whither  when  we  die? 

Into  this  life  of  cruel  wonder  sent. 
Without  a  word  to  tell  us  what  it  meant, 
/Z2.  Sent  back  again  without  a  reason  why — 
Birth,  life,  and  death — 'twas  all  astonishment. 

I  wonder  why  I  go  on  living  still 
This  life  of  pain  and  poison ;   why  I  still 
/  23  Trust   friends,  hope  good,  still  fight  and  still  have 

faith 
In  this  world's  business — still,  think  of  it,  still ! 

I  gave  my  heart,  and  life  returns  me — nought ; 
My  mind,  my  soul,  I  gave — for  what  ?     For  nought. 
/*^.A11  dreams  and  loves  and  hopes  I  freely  gave. 
Nothing  is  left  to  give — I  give  it — nought  ! 


S8 


Some  say  we  came  God*s  purpose  to  fulfil — 
'Faith  a  poor  purpose  then,  if  so  you  will; 
^A^**  Sport  for  the  heavenly  huntsmen,  others  say, — 
Sorry  the  sport,  methinks,  and  poor  the  skill. 

What  purpose  think  you  has  the  Saki  there. 
Pouring  those  shining  motes  of  wine  and  air  ? 
/i^A  bubble's  life — can  it  be  nought  to  him? 
A  million  bubbles — he  must  surely  care! 

Passionate  particles  of  dust  and  sun. 
Run  your  brief  race,  nor  ask  why  it  is  run — 
/i7We  are  but  shadow-pictures,  voices,  dreams; 
Perchance  they  make  and  break  us — -just  for  fun. 


59 


O  Love,  I  come  to  worship  in  your  shrine y 
There  is  no  part  of  you  is  not  divine, 
ZS'  There  is  no  part  of  you  not  human  too^ 
There  is  no  part  of  you  that  is  not  mine ; 

Except — except — that  heart  of  precious  stone y 
Cold  heart  no  man  shall  ever  call  his  own, 
'^j^  Nor  fire  warm,  nor  might  of  loving  win. 
Heart  great,  and  cold,  enough  to  dwell  alone. 

Though  the  green  world  were  wrapped  in  fiaming  hell. 
Though  sun  and  stars  from  out  their  stations  fell, 
f36,Still,  merciless  Beloved,  would  I  stand 
Firm  in  your  path  and  ask  you,  ^^ Is  it  well?*' 


60 


'Tis  a  great  fuss,  all  this  of  Thee  and  Me, 
Important  folk  are  we — to  Thee  and  Me  ; 
/3f.  Yet  what  if  we  mean  nothing  after  all. 
And  what  if  Heaven  cares  nought — for  Thee  and  Me  ? 

All  those  who  in  their  graves  unheeded  lie 
Were  just  as  pompous  once  as  You  and  I, 
Mz-Complacent  spake  their  little  arrogant  names. 
And  wagged  their  heads,  and  never  thought  to  die. 

A  beauty  sleeps  beneath  yon  quiet  grass 
Who  dreamed  her  face  the  world  might  not  surpass, 
/jf.Strength  is  her  neighbour,  but  he  boasts  no  more, — 
And  over  them  the  wind  cries  out,  "Alas !  " 

Would  you  seek  beauty,  seek  it  underground; 
Would  you  find  strength — the  strong  are  underground; 
/'J^s"'And  would  you  next  year  seek  my  love  and  me. 
Who  knows  but  you  must  seek  us — underground? 


6i 


O  hearty  my  hearty  the  world  is  weary-wise^ 
My  only  resting-place  is  your  deep  eyeSy 
slO  wrap  me  warm  in  their  illusive  love^--^ 
For  well  I  know  that  they  are  also  lies. 


62 


Sometimes  as,  cup  in  hand  among  the  flowers, 
I  think  on  all  my  witty  wasted  hours, 
f^jl  see  that  wine  has  been  a  fable  too. 
Yes !   even  wine — so  false  a  world  is  ours. 

Yet  were  it  vain  some  other  way  to  try, 

Of  all  our  lying  wine  is  least  a  lie, 

/as. All  earthly  roads  wind  nowhere  in  the  end, — 

What  matters  then  the  road  we  travel  by  ? 

Traveller  in  many  lands — that  too  is  nought! 
And  thou  art  rich  and  wise — alas!   'tis  nought! 
'^?.But,  poor  and  foolish,  thou  hast  stayed  at  home,- 
Believe  me,  friend,  that  that  is  also  nought ! 

O  weary  man  upon  a  weary  earth. 

What  is  this  toil  that  we  call  living  worth? 

/  f<?This  dreary  agitation  of  the  dust. 

And  all  this  strange  mistake  of  mortal  birth. 


63 


Would  we  were  sure  of  some  oasis  blest. 

Where,  the  long  journey  over,  we  might  rest; 

^+/.0  just  to  sleep  a  hundred  thousand  years. 

Tired  head,  tired  heart,  within  the  earth's  dark  breast ! 

At  the  pale  gate  of  birth  an  angel  stands 
Singing  a  lying  song  of  lovely  lands, 
/  ^2.  Sweet  as  a  bird  each  worn  and  weary  lie, — 
The  soul  believes  and  takes  the  angel's  hands. 

Would  that  some  voice  that  knew  the  whole  deceit^ 
Far  off  in  space  the  unborn  soul  might  greet, 
/4.j.Hot-foot  for  earth,  with  lying  fancies  fired. 
And  thunder  all  the  terror  and  the  cheat. 

Let  us  make  haste,  perchance  for  us  to  warn 
The  eager  soul  that  clamours  to  be  born, 
I'f^To  turn  aside  all  that  tremendous  doom 
Of  fated  generations  still  unborn. 


64 


Sometimes  tt  is  my  fancy  to  suppose 
The  rose  thy  face — so  like  thy  face  it  glows; 
/-w.  O  woman  made  of  roses  out  and  in^ 
Sometimes  I  only  take  thee  for  a  rose. 


65 


Write  it  in  wine  upon  a  rose-leaved  scroll : 
All  wisdom  I  found  hidden  in  the  bowl, 
f"^^'  All  answers  to  all  questions  saving  one, — 
Which  is  the  body,  and  which  is  the  soul  ? 

Poised  for  an  instant  in  The  Master's  hand. 
Body  and  soul  like  to  a  compass  stand, 
/4  7.The  body  turning  round  the  central  soul. 
He  makes  a  little  circle  in  the  sand. 

This  sounding  world  is  but  a  dream  that  cries 
In  fancy's  ears  and  lives  in  fancy's  eyes, 
/+F.Death  lays  his  finger  on  the  darkening  soul. 
And  all  the  glowing  shadow  fades  and  flies. 

Shall  death,  that  shuts  the  ear  and  locks  the  brain. 
Teach  us  what  eager  life  hath  sought  in  vain  ? 
i^f.Yet  have  I  heard,  so  wild  is  human  guess! 
This  dullard  death  shall  make  life's  meaning  plain. 


66 


When  this  mysterious  self  shall  leave  behind 
The  subtle  painted  clay  that  keeps  it  blind, 
i^^The  ransomed  essence  wantons  in  the  beam 
That  seeks  in  vain  the  dark  embodied  mind. 

Yet  if  the  soul  should  with  the  body  die, 

A  flame  that  flickers  when  the  oil  runs  dry, 

iSu  Still  but  the  heart  that  drives  the  strange  machine — 

And  what  remains  of  this  you  once  called  **I"? 

The  soul  is  but  the  senses  catching  fire. 
Marvellous  music  of  the  body's  lyre, — 
r^2.The  angel  senses  are  the  silver  strings 
Stirred  by  the  breath  of  some  unknown  desire. 


67 


White  as  the  moon  and  as  the  cypress  slim^ 
O  how  my  jealous  heart  doth  envy  him 
(S3.  Who  calls  thee  his  to  love  by  sun  and  star^ 
Rules  o'er  thine  heart  and  owns  each  little  limb. 


68 


Mysterious  mother  substance,  who  are  they 
That  flout  the  earth  that  made  them  ?     Who  are  they 
/ 4-4. That  waste  their  wonder  on  the  fabulous  soul? 
I  can  but  choose  to  marvel  at  the  clay. 

This  clay,  this  dream-sown  sod,  this  chemic  earth. 
This  wizard  dust,  wherein  all  shapes  of  birth, — 
is-iy-  Soft  flowers,  great  beasts,  and  huge  pathetic  kings, — 
Small  seeds  of  wonder,  fill  a  needle's  girth. 

This  clay,  this  haunted  house  of  sight  and  sound. 
Strange  sunny  rooms  that  airily  resound 
/6~t.With  phantom  music  played  for  phantom  feet — 
And  hark !  a  rat  is  gnawing  underground. 

This  clay,  so  strong  of  heart,  of  sense  so  fine, 
Surely  such  clay  is  more  than  half  divine — 
'^'7.'Tis  only  fools  speak  evil  of  the  clay. 
The  very  stars  are  made  of  clay  like  mine. 


69 


I 


Yet  mark  yon  potter !  see  the  rascal  twirl 
On  one  base  wheel  the  dust  of  prince  and  churl ; 
S^'  Plebeian  potter,  'tis  a  king's  right  hand! 
And  this  was  once  a  violet-breathing  girl. 

'Tis  the  fair  stuff  of  which  the  flowers  are  made, 
'Tis  beauty's  very  substance  sore  decayed, 
/^^.  The  brows  of  ivory,  the  breasts  of  myrrh, — 
And  lo!  this  fellow  turns  it  to  a  trade. 

Thus  spake  I  to  a  potter  on  a  day. 
Bidding  his  careless  wheel  a  moment  stay — 
/4<^."Be  pitiful,  O  potter,  nor  forget 
Potters  and  pots  alike  are  made  of  clay." 

And  as  I  spake  I  heard  a  whisper  steal, 
A  sad  low  laughter,  from  the  potter's  wheel, — 
/4/. Behold!  it  was  my  father's  sacred  dust 
For  which  unwittingly  I  made  appeal. 


70 


Almighty  Potter,  on  whose  wheel  of  blue 
The  world  is  fashioned  and  is  broken  too, 
/4x.Why  to  the  race  of  men  is  heaven  so  dire? 
In  what,  O  wheel,  have  I  offended  you  ? 

Fair  wheel  of  heaven  silvered  with  many  a  star, 
Whose  sickly  arrows  strike  us  from  afar, 
/^^.  Never  a  purpose  to  my  soul  was  dear 
But  heaven  crashed  down  my  little  dream  to  mar. 

Never  a  bird  within  my  sad  heart  sings 
But  heaven  a  flaming  stone  of  thunder  flings — 
/^^. O  valiant  wheel!  O  most  courageous  heaven! — 
And  leaves  me  lonely  with  the  broken  wings. 

Great  wheel  that  pauses  not  for  all  our  cries. 
How  fair  to  look  on  are  your  morning  skies! 
/^S.'Tis  but  at  night  I  fear  your  placid  blue, — 
So  very  evil  are  your  silver  eyes. 


71 


Mine  is  a  passion  that  can  never  change^ 
It  is  so  sorrowful  and  sweet  and  strange^ 
/^*.  That  even  from  the  very  nightingale 
I  must  conceal  it — 'tis  so  very  strange. 

For  lof  I  love  a  woman  this  strange  way: 
To  be  as  dead  without  her,  yet  to  stay, 
/^7  A  stubborn  exile  from  felicity. 
Far  from  her  side  until  the  Judgment  Day^ 


72, 


Yet,  'tis  but  children  curse  that  wheel  above. 
Which  just  as  helpless  as  a  man  doth  move, — 
/^s>'  Yea!  hath  less  mind  and  motion  of  its  ow^n — 
About  the  business  of  the  heavenly  love. 

Nor  are  those  sightless  stars  a  whit  more  wise. 
Impotent  silver  dots  upon  the  dice 
i(»f.  The  lords  of  heaven  each  night  and  morning  throw. 
In  some  tremendous  hazard  of  the  skies. 

Nay!  think  no  more,  but  grip  the  slender  waist 
Of  her  whose  kisses  leave  no  bitter  taste, 
/  7«5>'  Reason's  a  hag,  and  love  a  painted  jade, — 
Come,  daughter  of  the  vine,  dear  and  disgraced. 

*Tis  a  wild  wife,  but  sweet,  my  saintly  brother. 
Nor  in  this  sour  world  know  I  such  another ; 
J  J/.  Sweet  but  forbidden — ^yet  who  would  not  prefer 
The  wanton  daughter  to  the  lawful  mother? 


73 


Sweet  but  forbidden — forbidden  because  'tis  sweet ! 
For  salt  and  sour  is  mortal's  proper  meat, 
r/x.  Let  but  a  grain  of  honey  fall  therein. 
And  straight  the  surly  leech  forbids  us  eat. 

O  tattered  robe,  and  face  with  loving  pale. 
Pass  me  not  by — I  am  the  nightingale 
/^^.That  dares  to  sing  of  Riot  and  the  Rose, 
And,  brother,  I  would  give  thee  hand  and  hail. 

But,  sinner,  there's  one  thing  I  want  to  hear, 
O  tell  me,  is  your  sinning  quite  sincere  ? 
/74V You  would  not  leave  it  even  though  you  could, 
Say  that  you  would  not,  O  my  brother  dear. 

Remember,  all  the  pious  who  cry  shame. 
With  holy  horror,  on  your  tattered  fame, 
r7i' Watch  only  for  the  opportunity 
Of  turned  backs  and  the  dark — to  do  the  same. 


74 


Strange  in  this  wicked  world  how  hard  to  find 
A  fellow- soul  to  honest  sin  inclined ; 
/7i>.  Sinners  at  home  are  always  saints  abroad, 
The  rose  must  never  dare  to  speak  its  mind! 

Let  us  at  least  who  think  the  Rose  is  best 
Not,  paltry,  lie  about  it  like  the  rest, 
i  17' But  lift  our  glasses  frankly  in  the  sun. 
And  take  our  loves  as  frankly  to  our  breast. 

Here  is  the  creed  of  Omar  :   I  believe 
In  wine  and  roses,  also  I  believe 
n^.ln  woman  (what  a  foolish  thing  to  do  !) 
And  in  the  God  that  made  them  I  believe. 

God  gave  me  eyesight — shall  I  rob  my  eyes  ? 
He  gave  me  smell — instead  of  merchandise  ; 
/  7?. Members  and  senses  delicate  to  feed — 
Who  bids  me  starve  them  God  himself  denies. 


75 


A  sheik  once  took  a  harlot  in  her  shame. 
Calling  the  poor  soul  many  an  ugly  name ; 
'  )fo  «  'Tis  true,"  she  wept,  "  all  I  appear  I  am  ; 
But,  sheik,  of  thee  would  I  could  say  the  same !  " 

O  speak  not  evil  of  these  dancing  flowers, 
These  girls  that  arrogantly  we  call  ours — 
/s/  Yours,  mine,  and  any  one's  who  bids  and  buys— 

0  God  !   the  pity  of  the  fate  of  flowers  ! 

Yea,  none  shall  tell  that  I  have  turned  away. 
Ungrateful,  when  some  woman  bid  me  stay  ; 
/saThe  golden  invitation  of  a  friend 

1  answered  ever  with  a  thankful  "Yea." 

My  days  are  filled  with  wonder  and  with  wine, 
(Wine  helps  the  wonder,  wonder  helps  the  wine,) 
/S^.But  in  the  night  my  bosom  fills  with  tears — 
Tears,  tears,  for  one  who  never  can  be  mine. 


76 


Even  sad  eyes  must  sparkle  in  the  sun, 
But  when  the  miracle  of  day  is  done, 
/s-J-.  Down  in  a  bankrupt  darkness  deep  I  lie, 
Haunted  by  all  I  lost — and  might  have  won ! 

Yet  was  there  aught  to  win  that  is  not  mine? 
I  ask  not  money — only  to  buy  wine; 
I S6*.  Women  forsake  me  not  for  all  my  sins — 
What  better  winnings,  pious  friend,  are  thine  ? 

I  am  not  fit  for  hell — I  am  too  small; 
For  heaven  I  am  too  heretical; 
i^i*A  love  both  places,  yet  not  one  enough — 
'Twixt  the  two  stools  I  fall,  and  fall,  and  fall. 


77 


O  dearer  than  the  soul  that  gives  me  breathy 
Dearer  than  life,  as  the  old  proverb  saith; 
i^^l'Nayy  that  is  but  a  sorry  compliment , — 
For  thou,  my  love,  art  dearer  even  than  death. 

Face  like  a  glass  wherein  all  heaven  lieSy 
A  firmament  reflected  in  two  eyes, 
/  8  s .  Thanks  to  your  heaven  I  am  deep  in  hell. 
The  shadow  of  your  laughter  is  my  sighs. 

My  cheeks  like  hollow  cups  are  filled  with  tears. 
My  body  is  a  haunted  house  of  fears, 
i'^f.  My  heart  is  like  a  wine-jar  filled  with  blood — 
O  God  I  those  sightless  eyes,  those  small  deaf  ears. 


78 


If  only  one  dare  tell  the  lovely  things 
The  nightingale  unto  the  red  rose  sings ! 
/?«3'*See!   I  am  Yusuf's  flower/  the  red  rose  cries. 
And  wide  and  warm  her  sanguine  bodice  flings. 

O  ignorant  world  that  brutishly  denies 
Free  speech  unto  the  exquisitely  wise; 
'*?'•  A  thousand  pearls — yet  only  one  is  threaded! 
Alas !  for  noble  truth  that  hourly  dies. 

Strange  in  a  world  so  wonderfully  planned 
The  thick-wit  fool  should  always  rule  the  land, — 
f'i^'Ahl  well,  the  cup  must  solve  that  riddle  too, 
*Tis  more  than  we  shall  ever  understand. 

But  shall  the  jocund  wise  be  sent  to  school 
For  ever  to  the  narrow-minded  fool, 
/?3.The  evil-smelling  saint  outlaw  the  rose. 
The  joyless  make  for  joy  a  joyless  rule? 


79 


Why  should  it  be  that  those  who  merit  least 
Must  always  be  the  masters  of  the  feast, 
/^4.  The  fool's  purse  fat,  the  wise  man's  ever  lean, 
And  Beauty's  self  the  harlot  of  the  Beast  ? 

When  to  this  loot  of  life  I  come  anear. 
Hoping  to  snatch  some  little  worldly  gear, 
f^6".  I  find  the  fools  have  carted  off  the  best. 
And  nought  is  left  for  me  but — hope  and  fear. 

'Tis  written  clear  within  the  Book  of  Fate, 
The  little  always  shall  oppress  the  great, 
I'jb'  Who  most  deserves  be  slave  to  those  who  least. 
And  only  fools  and  rascals  go  in  state. 


80 


O  Love,  why  say  so  oft — *the  world!  the  world!* 
Have  we  not  put  it  by — the  world!  the  world! 
1 7  7.  That  cruel  thief  of  all  our  dearest  joys. 
Hath  it  not  all  but  murdered  us — the  world! 


81 


At  what  strange  prices  are  we  bought  and  sold. 
All  is  not  golden  that  is  bought  with  gold, 
I  IS  The  foolish  costliness  of  worthless  things — 

0  for  the  scorn  to  tell  it,  stern  and  bold ! 

Yet  is  it  well  the  vain  world  never  knows 
True  riches  from  their  counterfeited  shows, 
///'  For  what  would  happen  if  the  vine  were  dear. 
And  men  must  sell  a  world  to  buy  a  rose! 

Allah  is  good!   he  blinds  the  rich  man's  eyes 
That  he  the  weary  and  the  worthless  buys, 
7^0  Gaining  great  store  of  all  uncomely  things. 
And  leaves  the  lovely  for  the  poor  and  wise. 

1  would  not  change  the  song  the  flute-girl  sings 
For  all  the  diadems  of  weary  kings, 

5^A  His  joys  the  Sultan  shares  with  all  the  world. 
His  cares  he  keeps — a  chain  of  glittering  rings. 


82 


Have  I  not  wine,  and  love  to  drink  with  me, 
A  garden  and  a  gracious  company 
2*3. Of  sweet-faced  dancers,  and  the  rising  moon?— 
This  is  the  happy  half  of  sovereignty. 

If  in  this  shadowland  of  life  thou  hast 
Found  one  true  heart  to  love  thee,  hold  it  fast; 
1 03.  Love  it  again,  give  all  to  keep  it  thine. 
For  love  like  nothing  in  the  world  can  last. 

Long  have  T  sought,  but  seldom  found  a  lover; 
To  love  aright  is  to  be  nought  but  lover, 
lo'h.He  who  would  love,  yet  eat  and  rest  him  too. 
Is  still  an  animal,  and  not  a  lover. 

For  love  is  a  great  sleepless,  foodless  fire. 
Love  never  moves  his  eyes  from  his  desire; 
2 06*. Were  love  to  sleep, — awaking,  love  were  gone; 
And  what  gross  sustenance  should  love  require  ? 


83 


Moon  of  my  nighty  and  art  thou  really  here! 
My  happy  eyes  dare  not  believe  thee  here ! 
^oL.O  lovey  lovey  love, — come  let  us  drink  for  joy- 
Until  again  I  doubt  that  thou  art  here! 


84 


Nay,  ask  me  not  about  the  FouR-and-FiVE, 
Is  it  not  strange  enough  to  be  aUve  ? 
7.i>'j.I  am  so  busy  with  that  daring  thought — 
How  should  I  care  about  the  FouR-and-FiVE  ? 

Expect  not  simple  Khayyam  to  make  plain 
The  riddles  of  your  little  prying  brain, 
losWho  stops  to  marvel  at  the  simplest  flower 
Wonders  with  nought  but  wonder  may  explain. 

Who  knows  the  meaning  of  a  grain  of  sand 
Knows  the  whole  meaning  of  the  sea  and  land, 
i^f  And  simple  One  by  thousands  multiplied 
Is  no  more  difficult  to  understand. 

How  strange  is  man,  that  hath  forgot  so  soon 
The  daily  wonder  of  the  sun  and  moon, 
lip  And  his  deep  heart  on  childish  riddles  breaks. 
And  fancies  idle  as  a  summer  noon. 


85 


And  what  should  pious  Khayyam  have  to  do 
With  all  your  screaming  sects  seventy  and  two? 
Zif  Sin,  Faith,  and  Islam — these  are  only  words, 
And  my  desire.  Beloved  Friend,  is  You. 

You  to  the  mosque,  with  howling  hymn  and  prayer^ 
I  to  the  temple  of  the  vine,  repair, 
2/2  The  one  true  God  in  divers  ways  to  seek; 
I  find  him  here — but  do  you  find  him  there? 

Allah,  that  numbers  all  my  whitening  hairs. 
Knows,  without  telling,  all  my  little  cares ; 
2i3 .  Grateful  is  Allah,  he  will  not  forget 
I  have  not  wearied  Him  with  endless  prayers. 

If  the  abodes  of  bliss  be  seven  or  eight. 
What  shall  it  profit  my  forlorn  estate? 
2/^.  Reach  me  but  wine  to  numb  me  where  I  lie 
Heart-broken,  stretched  upon  the  wheel  of  Fate. 


86 


Khayyam,  who  long  at  learning's  tents  hath  sewn. 
Bids  thee  leave  How?  and  Why?  and  Whence?  alone; 
HjS'  Iram's  soft  lute,  with  sorrow  in  its  strings, 
Will  tell  thee  all  that  ever  can  be  known. 

Wisest  of  all  the  wise  is  he  who  knows 
What  saith  the  wine  as  in  the  cup  it  flows, 
2/^' And  he  alone  is  learned  who  can  read 
The  little  scented  pages  of  the  rose. 

This  little  rose,  frail  shape  of  summer's  breath. 
How  often  hath  she  journeyed  down  to  death, 
2/7.  The  mighty  tarried,  but  this  rose  returned — 
Think  then  how  strange  must  be  the  words  she  saith. 

Sweet  rose  that  in  the  darksome  earth  hath  been, 

O  tell  me — have  you  there  my  true  love  seen  ? 

2/ y. That  was  herself  so  fair  a  rose,  until 

Death  touched  her  brow  and  changed  her  to  a  queen. 


87 


Forgetful  unf or  gotten^  I  have  found 
No  face  again  like  thine ^  nor  thy  profound 
2  (J.  Sad  eyes  again,  nor  heard  in  all  the  world 
As  thy  blest  voice  again  so  sweet  a  sound. 


88 


0  sufi,  dervish,  subtle  kalendar. 

How  very  thirsty  all  your  questions  are! 
^^^I  cannot  answer  them  unless  I  lean 
Upon  the  perfumed  lip  of  yonder  jar. 

So  great  a  brightness  is  the  soul  of  wine 
That  even  in  the  darkness  it  will  shine, 
^^I'And  cocks  will  crow,  mistaking  for  the  dawn 
The  apparition  of  its  light  divine. 

Well  might  a  world  without  it  so  forlorn 
Mistake  the  glorious  wine-cup  for  the  morn, 
522*.  Tis  the  true  morning,  there  is  none  beside — 
Wine  was  the  happy  morning  I  was  born. 

If  I  the  faithful  vine  should  e'er  forsake, 

1  think  the  nightingale's  sad  heart  would  break, 
%l^The  rose  throw  down  her  petals  in  despair — 

It  were  so  strange  a  sacrifice  to  make. 


89 


When,  with  wild  joys  and  sorrows  broken  quite, 
I  face  the  morning  of  the  endless  night, 
2if. Still  shall  I  call  for  wine,  and  still  for  thee. 
And  Pleasure  close  the  eyes  she  once  kept  bright. 

Not  all  the  fancies  of  the  devotee 
Shall  make  fair  pleasure  aught  but  fair  for  me: 
gi^hese  things  are  good — this  woman  and  this  wine; 
Shall  I  exchange  them  for — hypocrisy? 

Wrong  not  thyself,  believing  God  to  please. 
Nor  think  to  serve  Him  by  such  lies  as  these, 
t24.Break  not  for  fashion  an  eternal  law. 
Nor  change  true  pleasures  for  false  pieties. 

Sunday  is  good  for  drinking,  Monday  too. 
Nor  yet  on  Tuesday  put  the  wine  from  you, 
227.Wednesday  drink  deep,  Thursday  nor  Friday  fail — 
On  Saturday  is  nothing  else  to  do. 


90 


The  sixtieth  cup  makes  me  so  wise  with  wine, 
A  thousand  riddles  clear  as  crystal  shine, 
22^.  And  much  I  wonder  what  it  can  have  been 
That  used  to  puzzle  this  poor  head  of  mine. 

Yet  with  the  morn,  the  wine-deserted  brain 
Sees  all  its  riddles  trooping  back  again; 
2^^Say,  am  I  sober  when  I  see  nought  clear? 
And  am  I  drunk  when  I  see  all  things  plain  ? 

When  I  am  drunk  the  sky  of  life  is  clear. 
And  I  gaze  into  it  without  a  fear, 
2 3^ As  I  grow  sober  horribly  I  dread 
The  shadows  of  my  vultures  drawing  near. 

And,  as  I  drink,  up  through  my  brain  there  grows 
The  thornless  image  of  a  magic  rose, 
^s/. Whereto  comes  singing  sweet  a  nightingale — 
The  wine-rose  fades,  and  the  brown  wine-bird  goes. 


91 


But  O  may  never  dawn  that  last  sad  hour 
When  wine  shall  fail  of  its  accustomed  power, 
tii'And  I  shall  look  with  dull  forgetful  eyes. 
An  old  dead  man,  on  maidens  in  their  flower. 

Then  were  it  time  indeed  to  say  good-bye 
To  the  green  earth  and  the  old  happy  sky; 
233.  Bury  me  quick,  a  garrulous  old  corpse, — 
There  is  no  more  of  Khayyam  left  to  die. 


92 


**  Where  are  the  fair  old  faces  gone  a-hiding? 
Where  is  the  far-off  place  of  their  abiding^ 
X^^.I  asked  the  wise y  and  thus  the  wise  to  me: 
"  Drink y  they  are  gone — and  there  is  never  a  tiding. 


93 


Comes  Ramadan,  the  pleasant  days  are  done. 
And  pious  breath  obscures  the  very  sun; 
x.iS'  Soon  must  the  wine  mope  lonely  in  the  jar. 
And  lovely  women  weary  to  be  won. 

This  shall  I  do,  and  so  preserve  the  fast: 
To-night  I  drink  so  deep  that  I  shall  last, 
2s^-Sunk  in  the  strong  oblivion  of  wine. 
Till  the  whole  forty  evil  days  be  passed. 

Yet  think  not  wine  is  wisdom  for  the  fool, 
'Tis  but  the  wise  should  follow  wisdom's  rule; 
SJyThe  sot,  the  brawler,  and  the  ugly-tongued — 
Believe  not  these  of  gentle  Khayyam's  school. 

This  tavern-wisdom  was  not  made  for  all. 
The  congregation  of  the  great  is  small, 
2s5.Drink  not  with  every  wine-flown  Hatim  Tai, 
Nor  lift  thy  cup  to  every  noisy  call. 


94 


The  Book  of  Joy  is  such  a  book  as  mine, 
A  book  of  rose-leaves  smelHng  all  of  wine, 
23y.  Beware  the  honey  of  its  simple  page — 
It  hath  overtaken  stronger  heads  than  thine. 

True  wine  has  many  meanings  more  than  wine. 
True  wine  will  even  warn  us  against  wine — 
Z^o  Any  intoxication  of  the  soul. 
Yea !  or  the  senses,  is  the  angel  Wine. 

If  only  this  green  world  might  last  for  ever. 
And  love  be  love,  and  wine  be  wine  for  ever ! 
2^' Eternal  Rose  of  the  Eternal  Spring, 
Would  that  mine  eyes  might  burn  on  thee  for  ever. 

I 

In  all  those  star-cold  heavens  shall  we  find 
Another  home,  so  safe,  so  green  and  kind  ? 
2^:2.0  gentle  earth,  methinks  my  heart  will  break 
At  the  mere  thought  of  leaving  you  behind. 

I 


95 


If  only  somewhere  at  the  journey*s  end 
Friend  might  again  behold  the  face  of  friend ! 
Zfi'Very  forgetful  of  us  grow  the  dead. 
That  never  yet  a  word  or  whisper  send. 

Love,  the  fair  day  is  drawing  to  its  close. 
The  stars  are  rising,  and  a  soft  wind  blows, 
2*^The  gates  of  heaven  are  opening  in  a  dream — 
The  nightingale  sings  to  the  sleeping  rose. 

Shadows,  and  dew,  and  silence,  and  the  stars — 
I  wonder,  love,  what  is  behind  those  bars 
j2^.r.Of  twinkling  silver — is  there  aught  behind  ? — 
Venus  and  Jupiter,  Sirius  and  Mars; 

Aldebaran  and  the  soft  Pleiades, 
Orion  ploughing  the  ethereal  seas; — 
2-ft. Which  are  the  stars,  my  love,  and  which  your  eyes  ? 
And  O  the  nightingale  in  yonder  trees ! 


96 


Heart  of  my  heart,  in  such  an  hour  as  this 
The  cup  of  life  brims  all  too  full  of  bliss, 
2-f  7.  See,  it  runs  over  in  these  happy  tears — 
How  strange  you  seem !   how  solemn  is  your  kiss ! 

O  love,  if  I  should  die  before  you  died. 
Would  you  be  really  sorry  that  I  died  ? 
J-?-^' And  would  you  weep  a  whole  week  on  my  tomb  ? 
Then  be  a  little  happy — that  I  died. 

And  would  you  see  some  face  that  looked  like  mine. 
And  love  it,  love — because  it  looked  like  mine  ! 
2^f  And  say,  "  How  strangely  like  Khayyam  you  are  !  '* 
And  kiss  the  face  so  wondrously  like  mine! 

Then  would  you  bring  him  softly  where  the  rose 
Showered  its  petals  upon  my  repose, 
2i'^-And  shed  two  tears  together  on  my  tomb — 
Strange  are  the  ways  of  grief — who  knows — who  knows! 


97 


Night  with  a  sudden  splendour  opens  wide 
Her  purple  robe^  and  bares  her  silver  side^ 
zsfThe  moony  her  bosom ^  Jills  the  world  with  light y — 
Only  thy  breast  is  lovelier ^  my  bride. 

With  twilight  dew  each  rose's  face  is  wety 
Morning  was  grey  upon  them  when  we  mety 
is%'Still  must  I  drinky  and  still  must  drink  with  thee^^^ 
^Tis  many  laughing  hours  to  bed-time  yet. 


98 


O  love,  before  death  comes  to  make  our  bed. 
Drink  wine,  red  wine,  red  as  the  rose  is  red, 
^i^j.Qur  bodies  are  not  gold  that  we  should  hope 
For  men  to  dig  us  up  when  we  are  dead. 

Ah,  when  at  last  the  shrouded  Saki,  Death, 
Brings  me  a  cup  so  sweet  it  takes  my  breath, 
26'^.  Shall  I  not  bid  him  welcome  like  his  brother.^ 
Life  I  have  feared  not,  shall  I  then  fear  death  ? 

Nor  yet  shall  fail  the  efficacious  Vine: 
Wash  me  as  white  as  silver  in  old  wine, 
Z^ssr.  And  for  my  coffin  fragrant  timbers  take 

Of  tendrilled  wood — (then  plant  a  rose,  and  dine!) 

This  is  my  heart's  desire  when  all  is  over : 
To  be  the  wine-cup  of  some  dreaming  lover, 
l^/^.Into  his  wine  a  far-off  sweetness  steal, — 
And — who  can  tell? — the  wine  might  me  recover. 


99 


O  Saki,  when  at  last  is  run  my  race. 
Will  you  remember  my  accustomed  place, 
IS  J*  When  through  the  garden  all  the  summer  night 
The  moon  goes  seeking  my  forgotten  face  ? 

This  is  the  thought  the  dead  man  thinks  upon: 
Warm  in  the  sun  the  old  kind  world  spins  on, 
2f^.Trellised  with  vines  and  roses  as  of  old. 
And  no  one  says — "Where  is  old  Khayyam  gone?" 

O  friends,  forget  not,  as  you  laugh  and  play. 
Some  that  were  laughing  with  you  yesterday, 
1^7,  Spare  from  your  rose  some  petals  for  their  graves. 
Sprinkle  some  wine  upon  their  parching  clay. 

For  even  this  dust  that  blows  along  the  street 
Once  whispered  to  its  love  that  life  was  sweet, 
2,  &&.Ruddy  with  wine  it  was,  with  roses  crowned. 
And  now  you  spurn  it  with  your  eager  feet. 


100 


There  is  no  better  piety  than  this: 
To  set  aside  a  little  of  your  bliss, 
Zfc»''To  feign  for  death  a  living  portion  still 
In  all  the  little  joys  that  death  must  miss. 


I 


lOI 


How  wonderfully  has  the  day  gone  by ! 
If  only  when  the  stars  come  we  could  die^ 
t^^^And  morning  find  us  gathered  to  our  dreams f 
Two  happy  solemn  faces,  and  the  sky. 


I02 


Done  into  types  for  John  Lane  by 
Will  Bradley,  and  printed  at  the 
University  Press,  Cambridge, 
U.  S.  A.y  in  January,   MCMII 


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which  glowed  from  such  a  nature  cannot  fail  to  refresh  minds  wearied  with  the  storm  and  stress  of  modern 
thought." 

THE  BOOKS  OF  ALICE  MEYNELL 

LATER  POEMS.      l2mo.     ^i.oo  n^.'.      Uniform  •witA  *' Poems.'" 

The  Chicag-o  Tribune :  "  In  this  little  volume  of  '  Later  Poems'  there  are  many  charming  verses,  and 
probably  no  living  English  woman  poet  stands  on  the  same  plane  with  her." 

POEMS.      l2mo.      ^1.25.  FourtA  edition. 

Mr.  George  Meredith,  in  The  National  Revte7v,  August,  1896:  "To  the  metrical  themes  attempted 
by  her  she  brings  emotion,  sincerity,  together  with  an  exquisite  play  upon  our  finer  chords  quite  her  own, 
not  to  be  heard  from  another.  Some  of  her  lines  have  the  living  tremor  in  them.  The  poems  are  beautiful 
in  idea  as  in  grace  of  touch." 

THE  RHYTHM  OF  LIFE,  and  Other  Essays.     i2mo.      $1.25.  Fourth  edition. 

Athenaum  {London')'.    "Full   of  profound,  searching,  sensitive  appreciation  of  all  kinds   of  subjects. 
Exercises  in  close  thinking  and  exact  expression,  almost  unique  in  the  literature  of  the  day.  " 
Mr.  Coventry  Patmore,  in  The  Fortnightly  Review :  "  I  am  about  to  direct  attention  to  one  of  the  very 
rarest  products  of  nature  and  grace — a  woman  of  genius,  one  who  I  am  bound  to  confess  has  falsified  the 
assertion  I  made  some  time  ago  that  no  female  writer  of  our  time  has  attained  to  true  'distinction.'  " 

THE  COLOUR  OF  LIFE,  and  Other  Essays.      i2mo.      ^1.25.  Fourth  edition. 

Mr.  George  Meredith,  in  The  National  Review :  "I  can  fancy  Matthew  Arnold  lighting  on  such 
essays  as  I  have  named,  saying  with  refreshment,  *  She  can  write! '  It  does  not  seem  to  me  too  bold  to 
imagine  Carlisle  listening,  without  the  weariful  gesture,  to  his  wife's  reading  of  the  same,  hearing  them  to 
the  end,  and  giving  his  comment,  *  That  woman  thinks.'  " 


THE  BOOKS  OF  ALICE  MEYNELL  —  Contmued, 

THE  SPIRIT  OF  PLACE,  and  Other  Essays.      i2mo.     ^1.25. 

The  Brooklyn  Daily  Eagle :  "  A  volume  of  delightful  essays.  It  is  doubtful  whether  any  essayist  has 
ever  received  so  much  reverential  praise  from  contemporaries  as  Mrs.  Alice  Meynell.  Certainly  no  woman 
has  ever  been  so  universally  acknowledged  as  having  complete  command  of  English.  Ruskin,  George 
Meredith,  and  the  leading  reviewers  are  for  once  agreed." 

THE    CHILDREN.       With    Covers,   End-Papers,  Title-page,  Initials,  and   other    Ornaments 

w         designed  by  Will  H.   Bradley.      i2mo.      ^1.25. 
TAis  is  thejint  book  printed  at  the  Wayside  Press  by  Will  H.  Bradley. 

Professor  J.  Sully  :  "  To  a  pretty  theme  she  has  applied  her  prettiest  manner.  She  comes  certificated 
by  authoritative  hand,  as  trained  by  maternal  sympathy  in  the  unlocking  of  children's  secrets." 

THE   WORKS   OF   F.  B.  MONEY-COUTTS 

THE  REVELATION  OF  ST.   LOVE  THE  DIVINE:  A  Poem.      i6mo.     $1.00. 

THE  ALHAMBRA,   AND  OTHER  POEMS.      i2mo.     ^1.25. 

POEMS.      i2mo.     ^1.25. 

THE  MYSTERY  OF  GODLINESS.     i6mo.     ^i.oo. 

Stephen  Phillips  :  "  The  reader  feels  behind  this  verse  always  a  brave  and  tender  spirit,  a  soul  which 

has  at  any  rate  *  beat  its  music  out;  '  which  will  not  compromise,  which  cannot  lie,  which  is  in  love  with  the 

highest  that  it  sees.' ' 

H.  D.  Traill  :  "  Mr.  Money-Coutts  is  master  of  the  rare  and  difficult  art  of  clothing  thought  in  the  true 

poetic  language." 

The  London  Daily  Chronicle  says :  *'  Mr.  Money-Coutts  has  imagination  and  feeling  in  plenty ;  he  has 

vigour  and  sincerity  of  thought  ;  and  he  has  often  a  very  noteworthy  felicity  of  phrase.  He  is  a  strong  poetic 

craftsman,  and  his  work  is  always  carefully  and  delicately  finished.     It  is  plain  on  every  page  that  Mr. 

Coutts  is  a  serious  and  strenuous  craftsman,  who  places  a  fine  and  individual  faculty  at  the  service  of  a  lofty 

ideal." 

THE   WORK    OF   E.  NESBIT  (mrs.  bland). 

A  POMANDER  OF  VERSE.      i2mo.     ^^1.50. 

Mr.  William  Archer  :  "There  is  more  feeling  than  art  in  the  poetry  of  Miss  E.  Nesbit;  but  the  feeling 
is  often  very  genuine,  and  of  the  art  one  may  at  least  say  that  it  has  ripened  with  every  book  the  poetess  has 
put  forth.  Miss  Nesbit  had  from  the  first  a  remarkable  fluency  and  a  correct  ear  for  metres.  Her  real 
strength  is  centred  in  the  pure  lyric,  whether  personal  or  semi-dramatic.  It  is  in  the  simplicity  of  the 
sheer  love-song  that  Miss  Nesbit  touches  her  truest  note." 

THE  WORKS    OF    HENRY   NEWBOLT 

ADMIRALS  ALL,   AND  OTHER  POEMS.      i6mo.     35  cents. 
THE  ISLAND  RACE:  Poems.      i6mo.     ^i.oo. 

The  London  Daily  Chronicle:  "  Perfect  in  their  kind,  and  could  not  be  bettered." 

The  St.  Louis  Globe-Democrat:  "  Delicate,  and  almost  elusive,  as  is  the  spirit  of  his  muse,  it  yet  sweeps 

the  whole  range  of  human  life  and  whispers  not  too  boldly,  but  yet  all  trustingly,  of  the  life  beyond  or  behind 

it.     The  spiritual  tone  that  uplifts  it  is  one  of  the  special  merits  of  this  poet's  verse,  and  its  lyric  sweetness 

and  melody  its  unfailing  charm.     There  are  no  halting  rhymes  anywhere,  nor  any  labored  notes  or  hard 

coined  words  to  break  the  grace,  delicacy,  and  clearness  of  both  poetic  thought  and  expression." 

The  New  York  Tribune :  "  It  is  a  great  comfort  to  come  upon  a  new  singer." 


I 


THE    POETIC    y    DRAMATIC    WORKS    of 

STEPHEN      PHILLIPS 


HEROD:  A  Tragedy  in  Three  Acts.  Twenty-first  Thou- 
sand.    Green  Cloth.      i2mo.     Price  ;^i.50. 

The  opinion  of  The  London  Times:  "  Here,  then,  is  a  noble  work  of  dramatic  imagination,  dealing  greatly 
with  great  passion  ;  multi-coloured  and  exquisitely  musical.  Though  it  is  '  literature '  throughout,  it  is  never 
the  literature  of  the  closet,  but  always  the  literature  of  the  theatre,  with  the  rapid  action,  the  marked  con- 
trasts, the  fierce  beating  passion,  the  broad  effects  proper  to  the  theatre.  In  other  words,  Mr.  Stephen 
Phillips  is  not  only  a  poet,  and  a  rare  poet,  but  that  still  rarer  thing,  a  dramatic  poet." 
The  Daily  News:  "The  drama  possesses  the  sovereign  quality  of  movement,  and  it  is  even  prodigal  in 
the  matter  of  dramatic  situations.  To  this  we  have  to  add  that  its  dialogue  speaks  the  language  of 
passion,  and  is  rarely  encumbered  by  mere  descriptive  or  reflective  passages." 

PAOLO  AND  FRANCESCA:  A  Tragedy  in  Four  Acts. 
Twentieth  Thousand.      Green  Cloth.      i2mo.     Price  ;^i.25. 

The  opinion  of  The  New  York  Times :    "  Nothing  finer  has  come  to  us  from  an  English  pen  in  the  way 
of  a  poetic  and  literary  play  than  this  since  the  appearance  of  Taylor's  '  Philip  von  Artevelde.'  " 
Mr.  William  Archer  in  The  Daily  Chronicle:    "A  thing  of  exquisite  poetic  form,  yet  tingling  from 
first  to  last  with  intense  dramatic  life.     Mr.  Phillips  has  achieved  the  impossible.     Sardou  could  not  have 
ordered  the  action  more  skilfully,  Tennyson  could  not  have  clothed  the  passion  in  words  of  purer  loveliness. " 

POEMS.  Containing  "Christ  in  Hades,"  "Marpessa,"  etc.  Twelfth 
Thousand.      Green  Cloth.     i2mo.     Price  $\.^o. 

The  opinion  of  The  London  Times :     "  Mr.  Phillips  is  a  poet,  one  of  the  half-dozen  men  of  the  younger 
generation  whose  writings  contain  the  indefinable  quality  which  makes  for  permanence." 
Mr.  William  Archer  in    The  Outlook :    "  He  sees  clearly,  feels  intensely,  and  writes  beautifully;  in  a 
word  he  is  a  true  poet." 

MARPESSA.  With  Seven  Illustrations  by  Philip  Connard.  Tenth 
Thousand.  Square  i6mo.  Green  Cloth,  50c.  net;  Green  Leather, 
75c.  net. 

The  opinion  of  Mr.  William  Watson  :  "In  *  Marpessa  '  he  has  demonstrated  what  I  should  hardly 
have  thought  demonstrable  —  that  another  poem  can  be  finer  than  '  Christ  in  Hades.'  I  had  long  believed, 
and  my  belief  was  shared  by  not  a  few,  that  the  poetic  possibilities  of  classic  myth  were  exhausted ;  yet  the 
youngest  of  our  poets  takes  this  ancient  story  and  makes  it  newly  beautiful,  kindles  it  into  tremulous  life, 
clothes  it  with  the  mystery  of  interwoven  delight  and  pain,  and  in  the  best  sense  keeps  it  classic  all  the 
■while." 


THE  HUMOROUS  WORKS  OF  OWEN  SEAMAN 

IN  CAP  AND  BELLS  :  A  Book  of  Verses.      i6mo.     ^^1.25. 
THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  BAYS.      i6mo.     ^1.25.      Third  edition. 
HORACE  AT  CAMBRIDGE.      i6mo.     ^1.25.     Netv  edition. 

The  Pall  Mall  Gazette :  "  Mr.  Seaman  must  be  tired  of  being  compared  to  Calverly  and  J.  K.  S.,  but  he  is 

of  their  company,  and  what  is  more,  on  their  level.  .  .  .  One  charm  of  writing  such  as  Mr.  Seaman's  is  that 

it  makes  us  feel  quite  obliged  to  poets  whom  we  have  never  admired,  for  being  so  good  to  parody." 

The  National  Observer:  "  His  versatility  and  ready  wit  are  conspicuous  in  all  his  work.     As  a  parodist  he 

is  second  to  none,  not  even  to  Mr.  Calverly.     Mr.  Seaman  cracks  the  whip  with  consummate  skill,  and 

applies  it  with  such   naughty  precision   that  even   his  victims  must  find  it  difficult  to  withhold  their 

admiration." 

THE  WORK  OF  DORA  SIGERSON  (mrs.  clement  shorter). 

THE  FAIRY  CHANGELING  AND  OTHER  POEMS.      i2mo.     ^1.50. 

Mr.  William  Archer  :  "  There  is  race  in  her  work ;  it  smacks  of  the  soil ;  it  is  no  mere  imitative  culture- 
product,  but  an  expression  of  innate  emotion  and  impulse.  Mrs.  Shorter  has  all  the  fanciful  melancholy, 
the  ardent  spirituality,  and  the  eerie-pathetic  invention  of  the  western  Kelts.  The  unseen  world  of  semi- 
malignant  elemental  beings  is  quite  as  real  to  her  as  the  tangible  world  of  her  five  senses.  Her  imagina- 
tion is  nourished  on  folk-lore.' 

THE  WORKS  OF  ARTHUR  SYMONS 

THE  POEMS  OF  ARTHUR  SYMONS,  with  photogravure  portrait  of  the  author  as  frontis- 
piece.    In  two  volumes.      i2mo.      ^3.50  wer. 

Mr.  William  Archer:  "  Mr.  Symons  is  a  love  poet  or  nothing  ;  when  he  sings  of  love  he  is  himself  in 
the  expression  of  his  moods.  Mr.  Symons  often  attains  real  beauty.  He  writes  very  well — fluently, 
gracefuly,  without  the  slightest  harshness  or  vulgarity  of  form.  Mr.  Symons  does  not  merely  record  his 
own  actual  sensations  and  experiences,  but  gives  them  an  imaginative  extension,  working  out  in  detail  the 
data  they  provide,  the  possibilities  implicit  in  them.  We  encounter  a  distinct  personality,  an  individual 
note  and  a  restricted,  but  far  from  insignificant,  technical  accomplishment." 

THE  WORKS  OF  FRANCIS  THOMPSON 

POEMS.      With  Frontispiece  by  Laurence  Housman.     Pott  4to.     j^i.50.      Fifth  edition. 
SISTER  SONGS.      An  Offering  to  Two  Sisters.     With  frontispiece  by  Laurence  Housman. 

Pott  4to.      Buckram.      ^1.50.      Fourth  edition. 
NEW  POEMS.      i2mo.     ^1.50. 

H.  D.  Traill  in  the  Nineteenth  Century  :  "  I  can  hardly  doubt  that  at  least  that  minority  who  can 
recognize  the' essentials  under  the  accidents  of  poetry,  and  who  feel  that  it  is  to  poetic  Form  only,  and  not  to 
forms,  that  eternity  belongs,  will  agree  that,  alike  in  wealth  and  dignity  of  imagination,  in  depth  and 
subtlety  of  thought,  and  in  magic  and  mastery  of  language  a  new  poet  of  the  first  rank  is  to  be  welcomed 
in  this  author." 

Coventry  Patmore  in  the  Fortnightly  Reinew:  "Profound  thought  and  far-fetched  splendor  of 
imagery,  and  nirnble-witted  discernment  of  those  analogies  which  are  the  roots  of  the  poet's  language, 
abound,  —  qualities  which  ought  to  place  him  in  the  prominent  ranks  of  fame." 

THE  WORK  OF  HERBERT  TRENCH 

DEIRDRE  WED,  AND  OTHER  POEMS.     i2mo.     $1.50. 

The  Westminster  Gazette  says:  "Mr.  Herbert  Trench's  little  volume  contains  the  best  hundred 
pages  of  English  verse  which  the  younger  school  of  the  last  two  decades  has  produced.  But  it  represents 
more  than  this.  Grace  of  metre  and  scholarly  expression  have  now  become  the  birthright  of  the  many 
minor  bards.  Mr.  Trench  takes  his  readers  into  a  wider  air ;  his  best  lines  are  touched  with  the  spacious 
majesty  of  the  Elizabethan  singers;  his  imagery  is  not  sensuous  only;  it  is  simple;  and  he  can  be 
passionate  as  well." 

St.  James'' s  Gazette :  "  A  notable  poem.  The  first  serious  attempt  of  a  modem  poet  to  use  the  Irish 
material  as  the  great  masters  have  used  the  classics.  .  .  .  Admirably  does  the  poetry  reflect  the  elemental 
spirit  and  passion,  breathing  through  legendary  souls.     Instinct  with  feeling  for  bold  archaic  grandeur." 


THE  WORKS  OF  WILLIAM  WATSON 

The  Collected  Poems  of  William  Watson.  Designed  cover.  izmo.  ;J52.5o.  This 
volume  includes  the  w^ork  contained  in  the  author's  volumes,  "Poems,"  **  Lachrymze 
Musarum,"  **Odes,  and  Other  Poems,"  *'Thc  Father  of  the  Forest,  and  Other  Poems," 
"The  Year  of  Shame,"  and  "The  Hope  of  the  World,  and  Other  Poems,"  with  the 
exception  of  a   few   poems  excluded  by  the  author. 

The  LoTtdon  Daily  Chronicle  says:  "As  we  look  through  this  collected  edition  of  his  work  we  feel 
confirmed  in  our  belief  that  whatever  his  limitations,  and  they  are  not  few,  it  is  Mr.  Watson's  function  and 
his  glory  to  hand  on,  in  this  generation,  tlie  great  classical  tradition  of  English  poetry.  On  the  threshold 
of  the  twentieth  century  he  reconciles  and  brings  to  a  common  denominator,  as  it  were,  the  best  qualities  of 
eighteenth-century  and  of  nineteenth-century  verse.  He  is  the  heir  no  less  of  Dryden  than  of  Tennyson  5  it 
is  hard  to  say  whether  Keats  or  Pope  has  more  potentially  influenced  him.  There  is  significance  in  the  fact 
that  his  favorite  instrument,  which  he  fingers  with  the  utmost  mastery,  is  the  classic  instrument  of  the 
English  Muse  —  the  iambic  pentameter.  Pregnant,  resonant,  memorable  lines  flow  inexhaustibly  from  his 
pen ;  and  some  of  them,  we  venture  to  predict,  will  live  with  the  language." 

The  London  Daily  Ne^vs  szys :  "The  swing  and  rush  of  the  verse  in  the  great  themes;  its  epigram- 
matic felicity  in  others;  its  mastery  in  all  the  science  of  this  highest  of  the  high  arts,  will  make  the 
volume  a  model  for  the  craftsman,  an  abiding  delight  to  all  who  possess  what,  we  fear,  must  still  be  called 
the  acquired  taste  for  fine  things  finely  said." 

T/ie  folloiving  separate  Volumes  by  Mr.  William  Watson  may  still  be  had : 

The  Prince's  Quest,  and  Other  Poems.     ^1.50.  [^Third  edition 

Poems.     ^1.25.  \_Pifik  edition 

Lachrymse  Musarum.     ^1.25.  [Fourth  edition 

The  Eloping  Angels.      ^1.25.  [Second  edition 

Odes,  and  Other  Poems.      ^1.50.  [Fifth  edition 

The  Father  of  the  Forest,  and  Other  Poems.     ^1.25.  [Fifth  edition 

The  Purple  East.      ^0.50.  [Third edition 

The  Year  of  Shame.      ^i.OO.  [Second  edition 

The  Hope  of  the  World,  and  Other  Poems.     ^1.25.  [Third  edition 

Excursions  in  Criticism.     ^1.50.  [Second  edition 

THE   WORKS    OF   THEODORE  WATTS-DUNTON 

JUBILEE  GREETING  AT  SPITHEAD   TO  THE   MEN  OF  GREATER  BRITAIN. 

lamo.      50  cents. 
THE  COMING   OF    LOVE:    Rhona  Boswell's  Story,   and    Other   Poems.      i2mo.     ^2.00. 

Second  edition. 
NEW  POEMS.      l2mo.      ^1.50  net. 

The  Times  :   "  His  verses  breathe  the  spirit  of  fraternity  among  all  the  people  of  the  Empire." 
Literature:   "In    'The  Coming  of   Love'  (which,  though  published  fearlier,  is  a  sequel  to   'Aylwin') 
he  has  given  us  an  unforgettable,  we  cannot  but  believe  an  enduring  portrait ;  one  of  the  few  immortal 
women  of  the  imagination.     Rhona  Boswell  comes  again  into  '  Aylwin.'  " 

The  Star:  "We  can  recall  no  study  of  the  love-passion  that  can  compare  with  'Aylwin.'  It 
declines  to  be  classed.  It  is  of  no  school.  It  owns  no  lineage,  acknowledges  no  tradition.  Its  form  is 
new,  its  ethical  message  is  new." 

WILLIAM    BUTLER   YEATS 

THE  WIND  AMONG  THE  REEDS.      i2mo.     I1.25. 

Mr.  William  Archer:  "  It  is  with  Mr.  Yeats  that,  so  far  as  I  know,  the  genuine  spirit  of  Irsh  antiquity 
and  Irish  folk-lore  makes  its  first  entrance  into  English  verse.  In  Mr.  Yeats  we  have  an  astonishing  union 
of  primitive  imagination  and  feeling  with  cultivated  and  consciously  artistic  expression.  The  very  spirit 
of  the  myth-makers  and  myth-believers  is  in  him.  His  imaginative  life  finds  its  spontaneous,  natural 
utterance  in  the  language  of  the  '  Keltic  twilight.'  This  is  no  literary  jargon  to  him,  but  his  veritable 
mother  tongue." 


The  BOOKS  of  SOME  CLASSICS 


MATTHEW   ARNOLD 

POEMS.  All  those  contained  in  the  Canterbury  Series,  with  others.  With 
an  Introduction  by  Arthur  C.  Benson,  and  upwards  of  70  illustrations  and 
cover  design,  by  Henry  Ospovat.      8vo.      Price  ^2.50. 

ROBERT   STEPHEN    HAWKER 

THE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF  ROBERT  STEPHEN  HAWKER, 
M.A.,  OF  MORWENSTOW.  Edited,  with  a  Prefatory  Note  and 
Bibliography,  by  Alfred  Wallis,  with  a  frontispiece  portrait  of  the  author, 
izmo.     Price  ^2.00. 

PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY  and  ELIZABETH  SHELLEY 
ORIGINAL  POETRY.     By  Victor  and   Cazire  (Percy  Bysshe   Shelley 

AND  Elizabeth  Shelley).    Edited  by  Richard  Garnett,    C.B.,  LL.D. 

Large  8vo.      Price  $1.50. 

This  is  a  page-for-page  reprint  of  the  first  volume  of  poems  published  by  Shelley  before  he  was 
eighteen.  It  was  rigidly  suppressed  by  him,  owing  to  a  fraud  practised  on  him  by  the  other 
contributor  to  the  volume.  Record  of  the  title  only  remained  ;  a  source  of  puzzled  conjecture  to 
all  Shelley  students,  many  of  whom  were  disposed  to  doubt  whether  such  a  volume  had  really  ever 
existed.  The  unique  copy  from  which  this  reprint  was  made  was  discovered  in  1889  in  the  posses- 
sion of  a  member  of  the  family.  The  American  edition  consists  of  only  250  copies,  of  which 
but  a  few  remain, 

FREDERICK   TENNYSON 

POEMS  OF  THE  DAY  AND  YEAR.  By  Frederick  Tennyson,  brother 
of  the  late  laureate,  Alfred  Lord  Tennyson.  With  a  frontispiece  portrait 
of  the  author,  specially  designed  title-page,  etc.      i  zmo.       Price  $1.50. 

SHAKESPEARE'S    SONNETS 

With  fourteen  illustradons  and  ornaments  by  Henry  Ospovat.  Square  i6mo. 
Buckram,  gilt  top.      Price  ^1.25  net, 

Saturday  Revieiv  :  **No  one  could  desire  an  edition  of  the  Sonnets  more  tastefully  and  charmingly 
got  up  than  this." 

SHAKESPEARE'S   SONGS 

With  eleven  illustrations  and  ornaments  by  Henry  Ospovat.  Square  i6mo. 
Buckram,  gilt  top.      Price  $1.25  nsL 

The  Literary  ff^orld :  "The  excellent  drawings,  together  with  tasteful  binding  and  good  paper, 
make  the  v/ork  a  very  suitable  gift-book." 


FLOWERS  OF  PARNASSUS 

A  Series  of  famous  Poems  Illustrated.  Under  the  General  Editorship  of  F.  B. 
MoNEY-CouTTS.  Demy  i6mo  (5>^  x  4>^),  gilt  top.  Bound  in  Cloth,  price 
50  cents  net  i  Bound  in  Leather,  price  75  cents  net. 

Vol.  1.   Gray's  Elegy,  and  Ode  on  a  Distant  Prospect  of  Eton  College.      With  Twelve  Illus- 
trations by  J.  T.  Friedenson. 

Vol.  II.  The  Statue  and  the    Bust.       By  Robert  Browning.       With  Nine  Illustrations  by 
Philip  Connard. 

Vol.  III.   Marpessa.      By  Stephen  Phillips.      With  Seven  Illustrations  by  Philip  Connard. 

Vol.  IV.   The  Blessed  Damozel.      By  Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti.      With  Eight  Illustrations  by 
Percy  Bulcock. 

Vol.  V.  The  Nut-Brown  Maid.      A  New  Version  By  F.  B.  Money-Coutts.     With  Nine  Il- 
lustrations by  Herbert  Cole. 

Vol.  VI.  A  Dream  of  Fair  Women.       By  Alfred  Tennyson.       With  Illustrations  by  Percy 
Bulcock. 

Vol.  VII.   A  Day  Dream.      By  Alfred  Tennyson.      With  Eight  Illustrations  by  Amelia  Bauerle. 

Vol.  VIII.   A  Ballade   upon  a  Wedding.     By  Sir  John  Suckling.      With  Nine  Illustrations 
by  Herbert  Cole. 

Vol.  IX.   The    Rubaiyat    of    Omar    Khayyam.       Rendered   into    English  Verse  by  Edward 
FitzGerald.     With  Nine  Illustrations  by  Herbert  Cole. 

Vol.  X.  The  Rape  of  the  Lock.      By  Alexander  Pope.      With  Nine  Illustrations  by  Aubrey 
Beardsley. 

Vol.  XI.  Christmas  at  the  Mermaid.     By  Theodore  Watts-Dunton.     With  Nine  Illustrations 
by  Herbert  Cole. 

Vol.  XII.   Songs  of  Innocence.      By  William  Blake.      With  Nine  Illustrations  by  Geraldine 
Morris. 

Other  Volumes  in  Preparation 

THE  LOVER'S   LIBRARY 

Edited  by  Frederic  Chapman.  Size  5^4^  x  3  inches.  Bound  in  Violet  or  Apple- 
Green  Cloth,  price  50  cents  net  ^  Bound  in  Violet  or  Apple-Green  Leather, 
price  75  cents  net. 

Vol.  I.  The  Love  Poems  of  Shelley. 

Vol.  II.  The  Love  Poems  of  Browning. 

Vol.  III.  The  Silence  of  Love. 

Vol.  IV.  The  Love  Poems  of  Tennyson. 

Vol.  V.  The  Love  Poems  of  Landor. 

Vol.  VI.   The  Love  Poems  of  E.  B.   Browning. 

Vol.  VII.  The  Love  Poems  of  Robert  Burns. 

Vol.  VIII.  The  Love  Poems  of  Sir  John  Suckling. 

Vol.  IX.   The  Love  Poems  of  Herrick. 

Vol.  X.  The  Love  Poems  of  W.   S.   Blunt    (Proteus). 

Other  Volumes  in  Preparation 

It  is  sought  to  include  in  a  group  of  compact  little  volumes  the  best  Love  Poems  of  the  great  British 

poets  J  and  from,  time  to  time  a  volume  of  prose,  or  a  volume  of  modern  verse  which  may  be  con- 
sidered of  sufficient  importance,  will  be  added  to  the  Library. 

The  delicate  decorations,  on  the  pages,  end-papers,  and  covers,  make  the  little  books  dainty  enough 

for  small  presents,  and  it  is  hoped  that  those  who  do  not  receive  them  as  presents  from  others  will 

seize  the  opportunity  of  making  presents  to  themselves. 


A  LIST  of  the   BODLEY   HEAD    EDITIONS  of 

The  Rubaiyatof  Omar  Khayyam 

EDWARD  FITZGERALD'S  RENDERING 

THE  RUBAIYAT  of  OMAR  KHAYYAM.  Rendered  into  English  Verse 
by  Edward  FitzGerald,  with  an  Introduction  by  F.  B.  Money-Coutts,  and 
with  twelve  illustrations  on  Japanese  Vellum  from  the  pen  of  Herbert  Cole. 
A  sumptuous  Edition  de  Luxe,  bound  in  White  Vellum,  tied  with  art-green 
ribands.      Only  loo  copies.      8vo.      Price  $5.00  net. 

THE  RUBAIYAT  OF  OMAR  KHAYYAM.  A  diminutive  booklet  version 
of  the  above  edition,  with  nine  illustrations  by  Herbert  Cole.  Being  Volume 
IX.  of  the  series  of '*  Flowers  of  Parnassus."  About  5  inches  square.  Green 
cloth,  price  50  cents  net.      Green  leather,  price  75  cents  net. 

MRS.  CADELL'S  TRANSLATION 

THE  RUBA'YAT   of    OMAR    KHAYAM.      Translated    by    Mrs.    H.    M. 

Cadell,  with  an  Introduction   by  Richard   Garnett,  C.B.,  LL.D.       izmo. 

Price  $1.25. 
N.  B, — This  version  may  be  looked  upon  as  one  aiming  at  accurate  translation  of 

the  original  Persian  into  English  verse. 

THE  CORVO-NICOLAS  VERSION 

THE  RUBAiYAT  of  UMAR  KHAIYAm.  Done  into  English  from  the 
French  of  J.  B.  Nicolas.  By  Frederick  Baron  Corvo,  together  with 
a  Reprint  of  the  French  text.      izmo.      Price  $1.50  net. 

RICHARD  LE  GALLIENNE'S  PARAPHRASE 

RUBAIYAT  of  OMAR  KHAYYAM.  A  Paraphrase  from  Various  Trans- 
lations. Printed  by  Will  H.  Bradley  at  the  Wayside  Press,  and  with  cover- 
design  also  by  Will  H.  Bradley. 

A  new  edition  of  the  above  work,  with  fifty  additional  quatrains,  bound  in  the  same 
cover,  with  a  difference,      izmo.      Price  ^r.50  net. 

LUCRETIUS  ON  LIFE  AND  DEATH 

In  the  Metre  of  FitzGerald' s  Omar  Khayyam.  To  which  are  appended  parallel 
passages  from  the  original.  By  W.  H.  Mallock.  With  title-page  and  cover 
designed  by  A.  K.  Womrath.      i2mo.      Price  $1.50. 

Few  philosophical  poems  in  the  English  language  have  been  more  widely  read  than  the  Rubaiyat  of  Omar 
Khayyam.  There  is  a  curious  likeness  between  the  philosophy  of  Omar  and  that  of  the  Roman, 
Lucretius,  who  also  expressed  his  philosophy  in  verse.  Mr.  Mallock's  rendering  of  Lucretius,  in  the 
same  metre  as  FitzGerald's  Omar,  presents  a  telling  standard  for  comparison  between  the  works  of  the 
Roman  and  the  Persian  poet-philosophers. 

Mr.  Money-Coutts  in  his  preface  to  "  The  Rubaiyat"  :  "  Job  is  less  known  than  Omar,  and  will,  perhaps, 
soon  be  less  known  than  Lucretius,  now  that  Mr.  Mallock  has  given  us  a  transmutation  of  the  Roman 
into  the  Rubaiyat  metre  of  so  smooth  and  honeyed  a  dignity  that  neither  the  learned  nor  the  unlearned 
remain  unattracted." 


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